


last vestige of innocence

by retorica



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: But also, Cousin Incest, Dark, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sansa is a combination of show and books, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-07-16 08:36:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7260361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retorica/pseuds/retorica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Picks up right after 6x09. "Had he always had this anger inside of him, she wondered? Had it come out - just for her?" Future Incest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. cold winds

1: cold winds 

 

Cold winds cut deep into her bones. She never used to feel them before; there was always a fear greater than herself to keep her mind occupied.

But now Winterfell had been won and a fragile peace had descended on the land. She was safe. And the winds cut deeper. 

Who was she now? It was the question that had plagued her ever since she left Winterfell. Had she _been_ anything before that?

Did one ever become someone _new_?

It sickened her to think Ramsay had been right. There would always be a foul part of him inside her. Not by virtue of violence or seed, but by the very shadow which had molded her into a killer. She had relished watching him get torn apart, teeth and blood and guts. There was a mean place now, right beneath her breast. She felt it throb. She remembered the Hound mourning her fate, believing her sons would grow to slaughter. She was her own son, then. 

She felt cold and desolate, lying on the fur bed in her old chamber, a fire roaring at her feet. She was a liar, a Stark only in name. She had tried to be Baratheon, Lannister, Tyrell, Bolton and more...She had lost count of the skins she had changed. All for the sake of something... she couldn't remember what it was anymore. 

It did not matter. Soon, perhaps, she would be a Baelish, if Petyr demanded his reward. 

There was a knock at her door. The guards shuffled noisily, and she cried out to let the caller enter.

Her brother walked in with a weary look on his face. When was his face _not_  weary, she wondered? She had learned that not even victories made Jon Snow happy, not really. He was smart enough to know no victory was enough.

Jon's eyes traveled swiftly to her figure and stopped short of her bare ankles. Sansa pulled the furs over her night shift.

"Has something happened?"

"No. Nothing of import...don't trouble yourself. Ramsay's dead, as you well know."

"Yes," she said defiantly. "He died by his own hand, by his own dogs." A killer never admitted to killing, after all. 

"Fair enough," he agreed, walking towards the fire grate and lifting his hands to warm them. "Cold winds tonight."

Sansa raised her head, startled. How had he guessed? How did he know...?

"Jon. I hope you've not come to judge me about Ramsay." 

He seemed so slight, her _big_  and _brave_ half-brother. His back was bent, his brow was furrowed and he was at war with himself, even in time of relative peace. Did he doubt the Stark name like she did? No, he'd always been a wolf. But perhaps he had grown tired of wolves...

"I would never judge you. Not about anything. We've both done things that..." he trailed off, rubbing his chin. "I'd rather not speak of them. But I believe we did the best we could."

"I think so too," she replied evenly. 

"But Sansa..." he started, turning to the bed, "I can't let you go with him. I _won't_."

She had been expecting it, one way or another. Ramsay had been a devious beast, but Littlefinger was another kind of animal altogether. Yes, she had expected his disapproval, but it still surprised her that he'd put it quite so plainly.  She supposed there was no time to waste.

"I...I wouldn't worry about that. If we are to marry, he will stay here and help us rule. He's interested in the North. The Eyrie is hostile to him, from what I understand."

Jon scoffed, and it came out hollow and mean. "He brought us the Vale's army, and you say the Eyrie's hostile..."

" _I_   brought us the Vale's army," she interjected quickly.

"And how exactly _did_ you do it?" he countered, growing slightly flushed from the fire.

Sansa dug her nails inside her furs. "What do you mean?"

"You know very well what I mean. I _saw_ the way Lord Petyr was looking at you at supper. I wanted to cut him into pieces."

Sansa blinked, shaken by his words. She had never heard him speak like this. His anger usually took a more reserved and quiet shape. She did not recognize her kin. She suppressed a deep shiver.

"You cannot harm him, Jon. He's our best ally." 

"I don't intend to," he half-growled. "I'm not that reckless. But he _can't_ have you. I don't trust him and -"

"I...I don't trust him much either."

She tasted his words on her tongue. _He can't have you._ She suppressed another violent shiver. 

 "Then you must be careful around him," Jon warned. "We can't send him back to whence he came from, not without losing the army at his heel, but I won't allow for him to take advantage of your - of your virtue and..."

"Jon, please don't.  My virtue has long been gone," she mumbled awkwardly, thinking of the very day she left Winterfell. It had been late summer. She had lost every ounce of grace on the road to King's Landing. You didn't need a man's defiling touch to lose your shine.

"You're Lady Sansa of House Stark, I won't have you married off again to a stranger." Jon's voice was almost soft now, but it brooked no argument. "I won't let anyone hurt you ever again."

Sansa would have liked to remind him that they owed Petyr a large debt and that, anyway, young girls like her were destined to be married to strangers. But in the middle of the winter night, she felt so alone, so touched by his words, so dirtied by Ramsay's blood, that she rose from the bed impetuously and rushed to her brother's chest, arms flung around his throat. 

The embrace was one-sided for a few moments, but before she could pull away, Jon put his arms around her, locking her in a gruff bear-hug. One hand was squeezing her waist, while the other ran soothing fingers up and down her spine. She didn't know if he had ever hugged her like that, if they had ever been this close. She could feel his erratic heartbeat through his doublet. He surely must have felt her own heart through her thin night shift. 

"Oh, Gods," she choked on a sob, "I thought you'd died when we arrived with the army. I don't know what I would have done." 

"I suppose the Gods aren't done with me," he spoke into her shoulder. She felt his hot breath on his skin and she squirmed in his arms. It was so strange, feeling so fond of a brother she had never even considered before. He was suddenly her family, her center.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, about the Vale army, but I was afraid that Ramsay wouldn't meet you in open field, and if he took refuge behind Winterfell's walls, we would have been..." her breath hitched in her throat. "I'm _so_ sorry, Jon."

He brushed his lips against her forehead and silenced her abruptly. "I know why you did what you did. I'm not as thick as I look. I - I know why you couldn't tell me or any of my men."

She looked up at him with burning eyes. "I should have trusted you with what I knew. So many men died..." She had killed tonight. She had killed more than Ramsay. A Stark would have acted differently. A Stark would have spared as many innocent souls as possible. 

Jon sighed, caressing her hand in silence. He seemed to be out of words to say. He did not wish to tarnish the dead men's memory by denying the injustice of their demise... But he couldn't help being kind to her, his only sister in the world now. 

"It was cruel warfare; cruel but smart. Did you come up with the plan on your own?" he asked, feeling her blood thrumming under the skin. 

"Actually..." she paused. "Lord Baelish and I devised it together."

Something cold ran through his veins, something worse than ice. He dropped her hand slowly and took a step back. "I see."

"Jon, he didn't - we've been writing letters -"

"I really _must_ insist that you keep away from him, Sansa." There it was again, that inexplicable, almost puzzling anger that turned his grey orbs into fiery onyx. 

"I will do as you command, my lord," she replied stiffly, and watched his eyes turn back to his father's color. The kiss he'd planted on her forehead was scorching her skin. Guilt and shame washed over her, but she refused to let them overpower her. Tonight, only the cold winds touched her.

"I am not -" he protested.

"But you are my guardian, aren't you? Or you think you _should_   be, at least."

She felt him grow tense. "I know you are a woman grown. I know you don't need me in that regard." 

Sansa felt a small jolt. " _Of course_ I need you."

She could see it in his face, in the deep lines that traversed a skin too fair and young. _I need you too._   In fact, his need was perhaps greater than hers.

"All I care is that we are safe," she added, not really believing in her own words. But she was a practiced liar. 

Jon looked away in discomfort. "I intend to keep you that way, my lady."

He left soon after, and she lay awake for hours, recounting their short conversation, going over the quick changes in his temper. It's true, she had last seen Jon as a young boy at Winterfell and he was now a man grown. He'd ranged North of the Wall, fought wildlings, joined them, united them, stood up against terrible monsters and won against all odds... all these things meant he was constantly becoming someone else. Just like her, perhaps, the Stark name was not enough to contain him. 

Had he always had this anger inside of him, she wondered? 

Had it come out - just for her?

 _No_. It was just what an older brother should feel about his sister. 

She wished she could lie in his warm embrace, she wished they could go back to happier days, when he smiled more often. She was certain he had smiled, one time.

For the first time in months, she was harboring foolish dreams, remembering foolish songs. There was nothing innocent left in this world, except perhaps her and Jon. 

She snuffed out her candle and closed her eyes. 

She needed to protect that last vestige of innocence at all cost. 


	2. godswood

2: godswood

 

There was such work to be done. Sansa tried her very best to lose herself in it. She badly wanted to become what everyone expected; the new Lady of Winterfell, the last Stark heir, come home. But the Great Hall which had once been warm and cozy was now cold, and smelled of dry blood and dog piss. So many Bolton shields and coats of arms had to be burned and washed away, so many memories had to be expunged and carved out with a sharp blade.

She was planning to give a great feast soon, to make the Great Hall fit for lords and revels. But every time she thought about what food to serve, which wine to have at the table, her heart shrank and doubt seemed to cloud her mind.

Was all of this temporary? Was all of this nought but a dream? Would she wake up one morning and find herself locked in a dungeon with dogs for companions? Would these fears ever release her?

Still, the work helped, in some way. She watched over repairs and furnishing, instructed on table arrangements and dinner courses, and saw to the quartering of the Vale soldiers and remaining wildlings in the Guest House. The Knights and Lords were to be housed inside the Great Keep. She was diligently preparing chambers and supervising the washing. A Southron lady should not have bothered with so many degrading tasks perhaps, but her mother would have been proud. Catelyn Stark liked to keep busy every waking hour of the day. She always carried her sewing with her. Sansa did the same. If she stopped to rest for too long, she would lose herself in impossible reminiscences. Her mother running a sharp comb through her hair, Arya pulling on her carefully twisted braids, her father walking slowly towards the godswood, lost in his thoughts…

 

A fortnight passed in a flurry. She was constantly busy and only happened to see Jon at dinner, where she made a somber appearance at the end of the table, immersed in her own thoughts, but willing to converse politely with whoever happened to be her neighbor. Sometimes, it was Petyr. He never alluded to anything more dangerous than the weather and the new wolf tapestries which had replaced the grim flayed man of the Bolton’s. And yet, she sometimes felt Jon’s eyes on them. A lingering stare, like a passing shadow. When she looked up, he was already immersed in a conversation with Ser Davos. He did not approach her during these dinners, nor did he seek her out during the day. He was also busy, she understood. He was occupied with safeguarding Winterfell, treating with the Knights of the Vale, and reading reports from Castle Black. He sat in Ned’s old solar for days on end sometimes, talking with Tormund Giantsbane and Ser Davos. Sometimes, he allowed Littlefinger to be present too.

There was enough reason to worry.

News from the South was dismal. Sansa had read the ravens Maester Wolkan had received from the Citadel and King’s Landing. The King was mysteriously dead. Cersei Lannister had upended the capital, burnt down the Sept of Baelor and with it the militant Sparrows. She had taken the crown by force and was now ruling de facto as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. A mad, almost unthinkable outcome. Or so it seemed to Maester Wolkan and Jon.

Not to Sansa.

Not very much at least. In her time as a captive, she had seen a side of Cersei that few suspected or truly knew. She had seen into the woman’s lurking madness and her boundless avarice. Joffrey had been cruel, but Cersei was desperate, desperate to grasp anything and _anyone_. Often, Sansa had felt grasped. And she had even understood. She could not say this to Jon, of course.  That maybe, sometimes people went mad for a reason.

Your enemies reflected you, and you reflected them back. Like two mirrors revealing infinite, terrifying depths. She tried not to think of Littlefinger. _He_ was not surprised either.

The upheaval in the South, however, had a panegyric effect on the North. More Northern lords started showing up at Winterfell’s gates, lords who had not fought against the Boltons or shown the Starks support, but who now thought better of it.

Sansa tried to welcome them without resentment. Her mother would have seen an opportunity in their arrival. More lords meant more guests for the feast of alliance she had set her mind on. But she remembered the day she had heard news of the Red Wedding. Could there be alliance and unity? Could there be “guests” left in this world? Something must have shown in her face, some kind of doubt, because it was after a meeting with Lord Glover that Jon pulled her aside to speak with her privately. It had been almost a month since their last conversation. She let him take her by the arm and lead her into the solar.

“Lord Glover will feel insulted if you keep scowling, you know,” Jon began warily. “I may not like him any more than you do right now, but –”

“I was not scowling. And he would not care if I did. He only wants to barter with a sane man, and not Cersei Lannister.”

Jon frowned. “That may be so, aye, and we should encourage him to trust us, shouldn’t we? We can’t defend the North divided.”

Sansa twisted a lock of her hair. “I beg pardon if I seemed discourteous, my lord. I’ve grown too suspicious.”

“Suspicious of what?” Jon smiled. “Betrayal? You think these Houses have come to take Winterfell from us?”

Sansa shook her head. “They would not dare to act with the Vale Army surrounding them, but they might be thinking it…they might be waiting...”

Jon walked over to the window and pulled the lattice open. The sun shone down on his burnt fingers. He still felt their ghostly pain at night. The snow looked like melting sugar. The air was sweet. Sweet, and false. Never trust a warm day in winter.

“Why? Because I’m baseborn and not a Stark?”

Sansa winced, but she made sure to keep her voice even. “I believe it has more to do with the fact that their Lady of Winterfell was both a Lannister once, and a Bolton. Her loyalties seem uncertain.”

Jon looked over his shoulder. “So, neither of us is Stark enough for them, you are saying?”

Sansa smiled wryly. “I have not helped my cause by riding at the head of a Vale Army.”

Jon’s face hardened. “And what should we do? Chase them away? Lock the gates and let no one in?”

Sansa mused on it. “I know we must prepare for the battles to come, you’ve spoken to me about the White Walkers…but do you think these Houses are here to help you defend the Wall? They only want your protection against the South.”

Jon closed the window. “Littlefinger is not ready to help me either. He barely choked down a smile when I told him about the Others. He doesn’t believe me. So don’t count on him, my lady. He’s a _practical_ man, from what I can gather.”

Sansa was surprised. “You…told him?”

“He’s our ally, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but he is more useful in political schemes, not battles against ice monsters.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” he answered stiffly.

“Oh, don’t let’s fight about this again, Jon.”

“When did we ever fight?” He sounded taken aback, but Sansa had heard better liars.

“We have not spoken in weeks,” she pointed out, although she knew they had both had little time. Still, they _could_ have spared an hour.

“I…I’ve not had a moment’s rest –”

“And you think I have?” she retaliated. “Anyway, Lord Glover will not give his good men for the Wall. I am certain of it.”

Jon sighed, his breath coming out ragged and worn, as if he had just come up for air. “I know.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows. “So, if you know…”

“I have to try, don’t I? It’s our only hope. Unless we gather more men…”

She looked down at her hands.  The nails had been bitten off to the skin. Once upon a time, she had taken good care of her hands.

“You might _make_ them listen to you. A Lord Paramount is entitled to call his bannermen to fight for him.”

Jon blinked. “A Lord Paramount.” The words felt heavy on his tongue.

Sansa walked towards him. “I could legitimize you, Jon. I have that power, I believe. And who’s to stop us?”

_Who’s to stop us?_

The question plunged sharp claws into his brain, tearing at his nerves, making him stagger. _Who's to stop us?_

_Who's to stop us?_

“Sansa, you can’t –”

“Yes, I can. I can make you Jon Stark, my true brother. The only one I have left. Lord Paramount of the North. Then, Lord Glover would have to obey. At least, he’d think twice on it.”

 Jon shook his head, although the words were difficult to form. He felt his tongue deep in his throat. King Stannis had offered this to him, a long time ago… What had he said then? He could not remember.

“ _You_ are the rightful Lady Paramount,” he managed, after a while.

Sansa licked her lips. “I suppose I am…but do you see anyone laying their sword down for me?”

Jon ground his teeth when he realized she was right…and it was only Petyr Baelish who had honored her title.

“They should.”

“What they should and what they _do_ are very different things,” Sansa pointed out sadly. “But what will _you_ do, my lord?”

Jon stood next to her irresolutely. “I won’t take away your claim.”

Sansa heard his words, but she also heard something else, hidden between the pauses. She had learned to read a man’s desires underneath. Jon was too _good_ to ever speak those secret wishes. She wanted to tell him it was normal to want to be a part of something, to want to belong. She didn’t. She did not press him. This needed time…time for both of them to think…

They returned to the Northern Lords, her hand around his arm.

 

It seemed as if a feast would be underway, after all.  Celebrating the return of House Stark to its rightful Seat. A farce, perhaps, or a sign from the gods. 

She stood at her writing table with seating charts in front of her, pouring over them meticulously. No mistake could be allowed under such circumstances.  Who sat next to which was crucial for the night’s success. A servant girl slipped into her chambers.

“Pardon me, m’lady, but Lord Baelish wishes admittance.”

Sansa’s back stiffened. “Tell him I am terribly busy, if you please.”

“He said you would say that, m’lady, but he only wishes to walk you to the godswood for your evening prayers.”

_My evening…oh, Seven give me patience._

She felt a stab of shame and guilt. She had not visited the godswood since she had returned home. She had not had the heart or the stomach to walk across sacred grounds and sit underneath red leaves, hear them whisper her brothers’ names…

“Thank him for his attentions. I will be down shortly.”

 _He isn’t going to talk about the weather anymore_ , she thought grimly.

Littlefinger was waiting for her in the Great Hall. He was wearing his finest fur coat, black and silver, pinned at the throat with his gleaming mockingbird.

“My Lady, you look radiant as always.”

Sansa was certain she looked tired more than anything, but she allowed him his empty words. He offered his hand and she took it.

They walked outside in the frosted pink twilight, passing by the Guest House, which looked more like a barracks now. Petyr skillfully avoided the kennels, whether to accommodate her, or himself, she did not know. By now, everyone knew how Ramsay had died. She tried to keep still.

"You have worked wonders on the castle, my lady. Winterfell has never looked more beautiful."

_No. It's never looked more ruinous. But I suppose that has a sort of beauty too._

“May I join you in your prayers?” he asked delicately. “I find myself swayed by your old gods. They seem a touch more present than the Seven. After all, their mighty Sept of Baelor was burned to the ground, and no Warrior came down to avenge the massacre, no Smith came to repair the damage…”

“Surely, the Mother prays for them all,” Sansa said quietly.

“As you say, my lady.”

He squeezed the hand she'd placed around his arm. “It’s good to see you walking these grounds like a true mistress. Remember when I told you, you would see your old home again, just as it was? Remember the snow castles, _Sansa_?”

“I do, Lord Baelish.” _But that Winterfell is gone for good_ , she did not say.

“Please, call me Petyr.”

She said nothing to that, although she expected he would insist. He always did insist about familiarity. He loved hearing his name. 

“Your brother does not seem to like me,” he said all of a sudden, smiling into his collar.

Sansa pulled out a loose strand from her ear. “He doesn’t know you yet, my lord.”

“I think the trouble is, he does,” he teased, his smirk widening. “Ah. Speak of the wolf, and he appears.”

Sansa looked up. Someone was already sitting by the large weirwood tree overseeing the black pool.

Jon had his sword laid out on his knees. He was sharpening it carefully against a whetstone.

“Jon…” Sansa trailed off, caught unawares.

“My lady, Lord Baelish,” Jon nodded, not bothering to rise from his seat.

“I’m afraid we’ve interrupted you, Lord Snow,” Littlefinger spoke amiably.

“Pay me no mind. This is how I pray.”

Sansa was shaken by an image of her father, sitting in that same spot, cleaning his sword. She did not like this, she did not like this at all. This spectacle was not worthy of him.

“Be a good brother, Jon, and walk Lord Baelish back to the Keep.”

“Ah, pray do not stir on my account,” Littlefinger said, looking down at the Valyrian steel. “I can find my own way back. I shall see you both at supper.”

When Lord Baelish was gone, Sansa walked up to him with a scowl on her face.

“That was very rude, my lord.”

“I don’t see how it was, my lady,” Jon answered lightly.

“You instruct me on my manners regarding Lord Glover but you seem to neglect yours.”

Jon moved the whetstone across the blade with satisfaction. Sansa saw his lips curl into an almost smile.

“This godswood is for the worshipers of the old Gods. I don’t suppose Lord Baelish worships.”

“I don’t worship either,” she found herself saying.

Jon looked up in surprise.

Sansa cleared her throat. “I only mean to say, it’s been a long time since a weirwood face has brought me comfort. I wish it did." 

Jon straightened his shoulders. “Then why have you come?”

She did not wish to reveal that it had been Petyr’s invitation all along.

“To see Ned Stark sharpen his sword, of course,” she teased with a small smile. 

If the words affected him, he did not let it show. 

“You can come have a look at it if you like,” he said, half in earnest, half in jest.

She approached shyly. The blade shone blue and white even in the dim light of dusk. She was tempted to touch it, but she knew she might prick her finger.

“Joffrey made me kiss his sword once,” she blurted out without forethought.

Jon raised his eyebrows in alarm.

“Heart-Eater it was called,” Sansa tittered. “He made me bend down and put my lips on it, for good luck. It was at the Battle of the Blackwater. I prayed he’d fall off his horse and be trampled to his death."

Jon winced, but smiled. “Heart-Eater, eh?”

“He was a silly boy.”

“Silly, but he deserved the kiss of the sword,” he said, his voice huskier.

"He died poisoned."

"There's the pity," he remarked dryly. 

Sansa wondered if he knew she had been accused of his death. She was afraid to ask. Her eyes returned to the Valyrian steel.

“My lips bled after I kissed it. It was _so_ sharp. I wonder if they’d bleed now…” she contemplated. 

Jon swallowed thickly. He sheathed his sword and let it drop in the snow. “You are going to get cold, my lady.”

Sansa threw a pebble in the water. The ripples grew wider and wider.

“What if I offered you my claim?”

“What?”

“You said you would not take my claim away from me. What if I offered it to you?”

Jon rose precipitately. “Sansa, this is unwise –”

“Unwise?” she laughed. “Jon, one of these days, if not _today_ , Lord Baelish will drag me here before the old gods to ask for my hand, and you know I must accept him. Otherwise we lose all we’ve achieved. But if _you_ are legitimized, if you are Lord Paramount, I am no longer the pawn that Littlefinger desires –”

She did not finish her words. Jon pulled her to him, not roughly, not kindly either. Her breath hitched in her throat. She could see the powder of snowflakes on his cheeks, in his stubble.

 “You are not a pawn,” he said, shaking her lightly, as she imagined he’d once shaken Arya, either in play or as a rebuke. She had often seen them together, running, laughing…But Jon’s eyes had been full of light back then. Now, there was a dark night in them. But that was only the water’s reflection.

“You are my true-born sister! The _rightful_ ruler of the North. You _cannot_ give up your claim for him, he ought to be _banished_ for his offense.”

She could hear him grounding his teeth in frustration, because as he was saying these words, he knew they were not powerful enough to be true.

She raised her gloved hand and touched his cheek gingerly. “I am not giving up my claim for him. I am giving it up for you. _To_ you.”

Jon shivered. He grabbed her wrist and lowered her hand, but he did not let go of it.

“I don’t deserve it.”

He sounded like the lost boy he’d once been, deprived of acceptance, deprived of love.

Sansa felt his soft grip on her wrist.

“It’s not about what you deserve. It’s about what _I_ want,” she said, resolutely, the way Catelyn Stark would have spoken.

Jon exhaled. His breath was a cloud of steam. Sansa looked at his lips, waited for his answer. He was strangely beautiful in the darkening light, naked and vulnerable to her eye.

“My lady…” he trailed off.

And then he was walking away from her, and his warmth left her body. She did not turn her head to see him disappear into the white branches. She hoped he had understood her. She hoped he would say yes.

For the first time in months, she sat down and prayed.

 

Jon clenched his burned fingers.

She had poured poison into his mind. He was still a man of the Night’s Watch, still a bastard who wanted to ride beyond the Wall and meet his doom rather than take away her rights…

_The Lord Paramount…and the Lady of Winterfell…._

He dreamt that night of knights riding into battle. He saw himself on a white horse. A beautiful lady was standing in the middle of a bloody field. He rushed to her with all his might. He felt a glorious hunger. If only he could reach her, grab her by the waist and pull her over his saddle…

He missed, he missed by a hair’s breadth. The way he had missed Rickon.

He tossed and turned into his sheets, too soft for comfort.

His fingers clenched through sleep, because he imagined them running through hair kissed by fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your kudos and comments, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	3. the Lord's chamber

3: the Lord's chamber

 

“The head cook thinks he can get some good pies out of them, m’lady.”

Sansa watched as snowflakes burnished the frosted pane. She traced a wet pattern in the ice.

She wished she could stopper her ears, but the Lady of Winterfell _had_ to listen to such vulgar things, because she was a woman grown. Although, she doubted any woman, no matter how grown, could countenance hearing about Ramsay Bolton, or his still living hounds.

His old pack was unmanageable. Though they had gladly eaten their master out of hunger, they proved impossible to domesticate or even coax into submission. Not even the new kennelmaster, who was a wildling and who had reared wild beasts all his life, could make them bend. Dolm was his name. She and Jon had agreed that the Free Folk ought to become a part of Winterfell, as well as the North. They couldn’t very well ask a Knight of the Vale to tend to their dogs. But neither Dolm nor anyone else could save Ramsay’s hounds from death.

Except, it seemed, the head cook.

“No, the dogs won’t be eaten,” Sansa sighed in disgust. “Bolton’s supplies are enough to last us some months. We are not yet so desperate as to eat monsters.”

She was not referring to the hounds as much as she was referring to _whom_ they had eaten.

The housekeeping wench nodded her head apprehensively. “Yes, m’lady. As you will. But…what shall I tell the cook? He says no meat’s to be wasted, not in winter. And with the feast coming...”

Something like annoyance flickered across her face, but Sansa was already schooling her features into thoughtful consideration. The head cook was a Mormont liege, and he was as fastidious as his Lady Lyanna. Her ladyship had been generous enough to offer him, as well as a castellan, to the service of Winterfell. Jon had courteously refused the choice of castellan, but had kept the cook. Sansa would have turned both away. She was grateful to Lady Lyanna, but she felt she could trust the Free Folk better than men whose allegiance had already been given.

Sometimes, she feared she’d become too much like her poor aunt Lysa. Suspicious and mean.

She still remembered the look of hurt surprise that had crossed her face when Littlefinger had pushed her through the Moon Door.  The poor woman had really thought she was loved. In a way, that was bravery. It had to be, in a world as loveless as this one.

“M’lady?”

Sansa pushed her dreary thoughts away.

“The feast will take place whether he approves of it or not. I know it will be an inconvenience, but we must bear it with grace, for the sake of hospitality.” _For the sake of our home, for the sake of peace_ , she truly meant.

“We shall be frugal and save where we can,” she added, as to assuage the poor girl’s worried look. “This is not King’s Landing. Our Northern feasts are humble and honest.”

All lies, she thought. There was little honesty at Winterfell nowadays.

“Yes, m’lady. And the hounds?”

Sansa remembered her father’s words. _The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword_. He had cut down her direwolf, Lady, with his own hands. She could not swing the blade, that much was true, but she could stand and witness and take responsibility.

“Have Dolm prepare the hounds and tell him to wait for my arrival.”

 

 

He reminded her of Ser Dontos. He had his portly built, even his kind, buttery eyes, except Dolm had no time for drinking ale, and his expression was rarely soft and dim. He was always alert, always looking beyond the horizon at the gathering clouds. She could not blame him.

He was waiting for her signal now.

“Aye?” he inquired with a half-closed eye, holding the axe with both hands.

Sansa drew herself several steps back and nodded her head. She made herself look for as long as she could bear it. Strangely, Ramsay’s dogs did not cry out when they were cut down one by one. It was as if they expected death and received it gladly. Perhaps all this time they had been restless and angry because they had wanted their end to come sooner.

Blood and guts coated the hem of her cloak. Only the sentinels at the Hunter’s Gate could see the petty massacre below. A fire was ready for the bones and grisly meat.  Soon, there would only be ashes left of these sad beasts.

Sansa caught herself thinking of Lady again. She lifted a hand to her cheek and was shocked to find wet tracks there. She wiped them quickly before her eyes could become red. She had not shed a single tear when Ramsay had been eaten alive. But she was weeping for his hounds.  She was a silly girl. They were _nothing_ like Lady. Her direwolf had been soft and gentle.

 _Because **you** raised her like that_ , she thought sadly.

What would Lady have been if she had been broken in by Ramsay?

_She would be you._

Sansa crushed the snow at her feet, as if to stamp the thought dead.

She thanked Dolm for his service, although the man offered no reply, and she bent down to clean her cloak with snow.

When she resurfaced into the courtyard, she almost gasped. Jon was standing on the balcony of the Great Keep, and he was watching her intently. His eyes surveyed her carefully, as if she knew exactly where she’d been and what she’d done. But no, she was imagining things. Her brother’s face was blank, friendly even. He looked as he always did. Familiar.

 

 

The iron braziers shone brightly. Russet and copper flames licked the edges, almost touching but never reaching the Red Woman’s gown. She stared intensely into these fires, sometimes for hours, it seemed. They were no regular fires, not to Sansa’s mind. They reminded her of _children_ , unruly and unpredictable and strangely willful. But the Red Woman was mistress of them somehow. Or maybe it was the other way around.

Sansa never found the courage or the desire to speak to her. Magic had never arrested her imagination. Even as a young girl, Sansa had preferred the more palpable battles and tribulations of knights and ladies, not warlocks and mages.

Even so, there was no denying that there _was_ power in these stories. The Others, after all, must have been magic too. The saying went, you must fight fire with fire, or in such a case, magic with magic. Although… if they managed to defeat the White Walkers, what would happen to that magic? Could you trust something that mysterious and ungraspable?

She had heard Lady Melisandre preach to a small group made up of wildlings and Vale Men, the only ones interested to hear about her Red God. She had talked about the Long Night and the War for the Dawn. The words had sounded meaningless to Sansa and they still held a faint empty echo, but every day, she made an effort to believe in them, because many did, including her brother.

Her brother, who had been brought back to life by this woman…

“Do you see anything in the fires, my lady?”

She had not sensed Ser Davos’ approach. He was not a particularly quiet man, but he had been a smuggler, from what she understood. And he was nimble on his toes. The thought made her smile.

“It’s too far away for me to tell. But Lady Melisandre must see a great deal.”

Ser Davos hummed. “She does and she doesn’t. It’s all a matter of interpretation with her.”

“That doesn’t sound reassuring.”

“I imagine it doesn’t. But some of her judgments have been good. Putting her faith in your brother, for one.”

“Yes…that was wise. Does he trust her?”

“No one really trusts the Red Woman. She’s a necessary ill,” he replied tonelessly.

Sansa bit her lip. “Lady Brienne told me your King…employed her services in unnatural ways.”

Ser Davos sounded weary when he spoke. “Aye…and he paid for it, didn’t he? I blame her still for his fate, but Stannis made his own choices. He was always stubborn about that, and it made me like him more, if I’m honest...”

Sansa did not wish to upset him. She could hear the grief in his voice.

“Tell me, Ser, is Jon safe with her at his side?”

Ser Davos’s jaw locked painfully as he stood beside her. “She insists she’s got it right this time. That Jon isn’t Stannis, that Jon won’t fail. I’d like to believe her.”

Sansa searched his face carefully. “She believes he could rule then?”

“No,” Ser Davos amended sadly. “A ruler is not enough. A Prince. A prince that was promised to carry us through the Long Night.”

These words again, these words that left her cold, yet touched her with a strange foreboding.

When she looked down, Lady Melisandre was watching her. 

 

 

Sansa knocked at the door of the solar and was surprised when Jon opened it himself with some impatience.

“You don’t have to knock, my lady. Just come in.”

Sansa set down the rushlight on a nearby cabinet.

“Well, I didn’t know whether you were still entertaining anyone.”

Jon’s face was pulled into a strange rictus. “It’s past midnight. Who would I be _entertaining_?”

Sansa coughed gravely. “I heard that Lady Melisandre came to see you earlier.”

“Aye, but she left for her chambers hours ago.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but Lady Brienne has led me to believe that the Red Woman acts under the cover of darkness.”

“Darkness is the Red Woman's enemy. And Lady Brienne doesn’t like Melisandre very much,” Jon mused.

“You can’t blame her. I’ve not heard many good things. Although I am grateful to her for…” she trailed off, not knowing how to go on. It was always a delicate matter, mentioning her brother’s mysterious “resurrection”. She could see the way Jon’s shoulders tightened at the mere allusion. You’d think a man who had been brought back from the dead would be happy. But he hardly ever spoke of it. She wished sometimes she could ask him openly about it, wished she could tell him that he could talk to her…about what it had felt like… about what it must _still_ feel like…

She knew, deep down, that he had come back with a shadow on his back, a shadow which she had glimpsed in those grey eyes of his.

Jon busied himself with a roll of parchments. “Has Lady Brienne returned?”

“No,” she replied, still thinking about that shadow.  “Actually, I wanted to ask you to send a few men to retrieve her. Not that she needs any help protecting herself…but I am worried.”

“We’ve received no ravens from Riverrun. Maybe that’s good.”

“Or very bad.”

“Or very bad,” Jon conceded soberly.

Sansa lifted her chin and pointed at the parchments. “What have you got there?”

Jon scratched his burned hand almost guiltily. “Reports from White Harbor. Lord Manderly wants to pay us a visit.”

“ _Oh_. Does it say anything about his intentions?”

Jon smiled bitterly. “Only that he expects us to be more hospitable than the Freys.”

Sansa could well believe he would say something like that. Lord Manderly had lost a son and much more to the Twins.

But she couldn’t help crossing her arms in annoyance. “I see. Well, if he’s making the long journey north, his lordship might think of bringing his own supplies. We haven’t got enough food to feed him and his retinue, especially since his appetite is so renowned.”

She was shocked when she heard a sharp intake of breath, a breath that sounded very much like laughter. Jon was _laughing_.

“What?” she demanded, cheeks growing red. “I’m only being honest.”

Jon smiled warmly. “I know.”

“It’s good to see you smile. Here I thought I’d find you brooding.” There was a note of teasing to her voice. Jon didn’t seem to mind.

“I was brooding before you came, my lady.”

Sansa noticed the dark rings under his eyes and the hollows under his cheeks. “You should go to bed. You’ve done all you could for one day, Lord Paramount.”

Jon’s smile vanished altogether and he stiffened like a poised arrow.

“Sansa,” there was a warning in his tone. The room was suddenly cold.

“What? I can’t call you that, yet? Very well, but you ought to get used to it; we must make the announcement at the feast.”

“ _We_? Sansa, I haven’t agreed to this, nor will I –”

“It is your _duty_ , Jon,” she said sternly. “Your duty to protect me and the North.”

Her brother parted his lips in anger. “And I haven’t done it, then? Is that what you are telling me?”

“You’ve done that and _more_ , but you must think like a leader now, not a brother.”

 _Not a brother_ , the words echoed between them.

“We’ve discussed this already. You know the position suits you better. I will do all I can, in my power, to protect our home, but _you_ must be the one rule,” he said, his voice strangled.

“If the Seven Kingdoms still were what they once used to be, you would be right. But we are fighting bigger battles, aren’t we? I cannot lead against the Others. Ask the Red Woman, if you don’t believe me.”

Jon’s eyes flickered darkly. “Why would I ask –”

“I know what she has been saying, it’s no secret. I know she believes in you. She believes you can…lead us out of the Long Night.”

Jon’s mouth curled into a grimace. “Lady Melisandre only _hopes_ and _dreams_ –”

“Did she hope and dream you back to life too?”

He flinched, as if the words had hit him. Sansa realized it was the wrong thing to say.  She cursed her temper. “I’m sorry, that’s not what I –”

“I did not ask to be brought back, Sansa.”

“I know –”

“No. You don’t seem to _know_ , my lady. I’ve seen how you, how _all_ of you look at me. You think I must’ve come back with some secret power, some secret wisdom that I’m not revealin’…” he trailed off, his accent growing thicker with each word.

“No one believes that –”

 “Don't you?” he challenged, his eyes burning. “Tormund thinks I’m a god, Ser Davos thinks I’m cursed, Melisandre thinks I’m a hero from the songs. And you, my lady, think I’m supposed to be our father.”

There was silence after this for a long time. Neither of them was inclined to break it.

Sansa worried her lip until it was half-torn. Finally, she asked softly, “And who do _you_ want to be, Jon?”

The question startled him. It was not something he had ever considered, or anyone else for that matter. He dragged a heavy hand across his face.  

 “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Sansa wished she could tell him that she felt _just_ like him, that she doubted her name, that she doubted the very reflection in the mirror. But instead she said,

“Have you had one night of good sleep ever since you... came back?”

Jon exhaled loudly. “How do you –”

“I’ve learned to read faces. And yours tells me you are never at rest.”

“None of us are.”

Sansa shrugged, as if their previous conversation had been filled with pleasant nothings. “I do believe you are too melancholy, brother. We deserve some respite. Will you come with me?”

 

 

Jon felt like he was stepping into a dream. The chamber looked exactly as it did moons and moons ago. The sweet rushes on the floor filled his nostrils with the smell of home. A friendly fire was burning in the old hearth. He almost expected his father and his lady wife to step into the room. 

The Lord’s Chamber. He had only ever had glimpses.

“I shouldn’t be here.”

“Of course you should. In fact, a good night’s sleep in father’s bed will restore you.”

“Sansa, I’m not –”

“I’m not saying you _are_ him. Far from it. Firstly, you are shorter, and your back is not as broad as his. Your beard too –”  

“All right, all right.” Jon could not help smiling. Sansa was infectious when she wanted to be. He remembered, even as a boy, when she laughed, the Great Hall laughed too. Even Arya, his beloved surly Arya, liked it when her sister was happy.

“I’m saying you might be like _me_ ,” she said instead.

“Like you?” he echoed, confused.

“When I was a babe, I could not sleep in my own bed. I was very afraid of the dark, even with Nan watching over me. Mother let me crawl between her and Father sometimes. Although, she always ushered me back to my room in the morning.”

Jon exhaled a short laugh. “I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true! Father pretended he did not know I was there, but I knew he knew. There was something about this bed. It always made me fall asleep right away.” Her smile lingered on her lips.

“Maybe you just liked sleeping in the Lord’s bed.”

Sansa knocked him playfully on the arm. “That’s not funny.” She almost sounded twelve again.

“It is a little funny.”

“If you tell this story to _anyone_ …”

“You’ll have my head, I know,” he chuckled.

Sansa straightened her back. “Enough of that now. You should rest.”

Her voice brooked no argument. Jon approached the bed warily.

“There’s fresh water and some mulled wine on the table. You’ll find soft clothes on the bed.”

Jon touched the furs reverently. “You’ve prepared everything, have you?”

She nodded proudly. “If you don’t need anything else, I will be retiring. Good night, Jon.”

He watched her walk purposely towards the door, as if she was afraid he might change his mind.

A sudden fear gripped him. He had faced White Walkers, and yet he could not face this. Because he felt, with almost painful certainty, that the moment she left, the room would stop feeling like home, would stop resembling the past. It would only be the Lord’s Chamber, forever and always, a forbidden and unforgiving place…

“Sansa.”

“Yes?”

“Will you…will you stay a bit longer?”

“What?”

He couldn’t bring himself to say anything else. But she understood perfectly. Her lips turned up into a delicate ‘o’.

“I… yes, of course. A bit longer.”

She approached the bed gingerly. It was big enough for six. They would have enough room to lie down apart. But he could sense that this was alien to her. He was filled with sudden and quick shame. He felt awful for asking her this, awful for even thinking – this was strange and improper and he was only a half-brother –

“You’ll have to move, though, because I want the right side,” she said with a small smile.

It didn’t matter which side they took. They felt dwarfed by the furs as they lay on the hard mattress. It wasn’t a particularly soft bed, but it was comforting.

Sansa rested her head against one of the tall pillows and turned her body towards Jon’s. He did the same.

There was a large gulf between them, enough to fit another body. Sansa stretched out her hand towards him and he reached across the distance to catch it. Their fingers locked and gripped each other for dear life.

“I know you want me to be a leader…” he began softly.

“Let’s not talk about that anymore,” she mumbled. “I shouldn’t have assumed, after all you’ve been through –”

He squeezed her fingers. "And now tell me why _you_ don't wish to lead."

Sansa parted her lips. “I already explained…”

“No, you did not. Not really."

Her eyes drifted up towards the ceiling, where they dwelt on the irregularities in the stone. She gulped for air, as if she was slowly drowning.

Jon surveyed her with alarm. "Are you all righ-"

"No. I'm not all right. I will never marry again."

Jon shut his mouth stupidly. He waited for her to go on.

"I will never want a husband. I will never want a child. I will never - want anyone's touch. Not like that." 

Her fingers felt heavy in his hand. He watched her chest rise and fall rapidly. "Sansa..."

"Don't say anything. The Stark name, if it remains in my hands, will die with me. I know. I know it's selfish. I know it's wrong. Young girls like me are supposed to be married off for the sake of the realm. And yet, I won't. I _can't_."

Jon caressed her palm with his thumb. "Sansa...what did he do...?"

She closed her eyes. " _He_ did everything he wanted. And that is the last I'll speak of it."

Jon looked at her profile, the delicate curve of her nose, the fullness of her lips. Who would ever want to hurt such goodness? Who would be so _monstrous_  to dig trenches in that beautiful skin, to bring tears to those bright eyes...

He felt a sudden gnawing in his bones, as if he were being torn from within. There was a hoarse whisper in his ear. It was the whisper of death, a scraping of nails against cold stone. He had lived with this whisper when he had died. He wanted to find Ramsay's remains and have the Red Woman resurrect him so he could torture him for all eternity...so he could hear his wails piercing the long night...

The thought stopped short when he realized Sansa was speaking. 

"The Northerners will never have me if I don't marry. And if Littlefinger proposes a match, I cannot refuse. You are my escape, Jon."

 The words made him shudder.

"I understand," he whispered, his heart heavy with a hatred that was not his but which he felt deeper than any other feeling in the world. 

"Thank you," she whispered back, her eyes fluttering with sleep. “We will talk more on the morrow, and the day after…and all the days we have left." 

"We will have many, I promise," he said, and he brought her fingers to his mouth quickly. It was barely a brush, but his lips tingled. 

 “Jon…” she murmured listlessly. “What did Lady…Melisandre tell you… earlier today?”

He let his eyes fall shut. “Nothing. She said nothing…”

But he remembered her words. _I saw you in my flames…kissing a queen with red in her hair…._

He fell asleep.

 

 

The morning sun woke him before she had stirred. He was used to such early risings from the Watch. But he was not sure he _had_ truly woken. Because everything still felt like a dream. It couldn’t be, though, because his mind was rested and clear. And yet, when he looked down at his hand, it was tangled in red hair.

Sansa was sleeping against him, her arms nestled in his chest, her chin barely reaching his collarbone. He felt her steady breath on his skin. One of his arms was draped possessively across her waist, while the other had sunk into her hair. It was soft and warm to the touch.

For a moment, he did not move. His fingers trembled against her. She was not small, and yet she was small enough to fit into his arms. He wanted to protect her so much. He wanted to hold her like this every night and chase away the nightmares...

Sansa shifted in her sleep, bringing herself even closer to him, and he felt a tension low in his belly that made him groan.

“Jon…” Her dulcet tone prickled his skin, making him harden with base desire...

He jumped, as if burned.

Sansa murmured a complaint as she sank back into the furs when his body moved away.

Jon looked down in horror. They were wearing the same clothes as the day before. But they looked disheveled, guilty, _shameful_.

He must have been mad when he asked her to stay.

He splashed cold water on his face and put his hands over his eyes.

_I saw you in my flames…kissing a queen with red in her hair…._

 Wretched woman. He would cast her out along with her red flames.

He was nothing but a bastard with a bastard's terrible lust. _How_ could he have done this? When his sister had poured out her heart to him?

He could not bear to look at her as he left the Lord's Chamber. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments, much appreciated! I'm sorry if there are any canonical inconsistencies, it's been a while since I've read the books. I'm re-reading chapters to get reacquainted. Of course, I am still using the show's storyline, but it will vary. Also, at this point, Ser Davos obviously doesn't yet know about Shireen.


	4. glass garden

4: glass garden

 

Lord Manderly had sent a raven, giving them a fortnight to prepare for his arrival. Sansa knew that the retinue from White Harbor would be rich and bountiful, but she hoped that they would leave some provisions for Winterfell. Their lord was notorious for eating twice as much as he gifted.

The Northern feast was to be held immediately after his arrival, so that Lord Manderly might be flattered and agree to leave his supplies in Sansa’s capable hands. Every lord liked a good feast and every lord liked a woman to prepare that feast.

Sansa had every intention of buttering him up; she planned on using every charm in her arsenal to gain his support, short of marriage, of course. She had learned a few things from Littlefinger, loath though she was of using the full extent of his methods.

She _was_ nervous. She had heard Lord Manderly was a shrewd man, no matter his girth.  She only remembered him vaguely from his previous visits to Winterfell but he had never struck her as a very interesting character. That was about to change. She was afraid he might be ambushed on his journey. The Neck was broiling with the news of Queen Cersei’s rule.

These thoughts alone should have been enough to occupy her mind. But there was still no word from Brienne, even though Jon had sent a few men to seek her out.

And there was Jon himself...who was ignoring her.  

Sansa felt so foolish. She should have _never_ told him those terrible things in private. She had bared her soul to him in their father’s bed, but all it had accomplished was to widen the gap between them. She had repelled and disturbed him with her frank words. She had let him see the ugly wounds Ramsay had left in his wake...and Jon had turned away, disgusted.  

Ever since that night, he had become withdrawn, even more so than usual. He tried to avoid being alone with her at any cost. If she turned up in his solar, he claimed he was mired in reports and letters and could not spare a moment for his sister. If she tried to stop him in the courtyard or in the Keep, his face grew distant and his body visibly tensed. The only time she could exchange words with him was at supper, where he was flanked by Ser Davos and Lady Melisandre, and he never said more than “I hope you are well”, and “No word of Brienne yet”. 

He did not bring up the title of Lord Paramount, nor did he hint at his acceptance or refusal. Everything was coded silence and strained tension.

The old Sansa might have showed her displeasure more noticeably. She might have even denounced him for his disregard. But the sorry woman she was now simply sat quietly and absorbed his dismissal, tried to understand it better, tried to find its roots.

_She_ was the root, she came to realize very soon. He was pushing her away because no brother wanted to hear about his sister’s body and the way it had been broken.

 

 

The glass garden was in ruins, but she was determined to restore it, if not to its former glory, than at least to a practical use. Even if winter had fallen across the land in a flurry of thick white, the sun still shone brightly in the sky. In fact, her mother had always said that a gentle winter sun was more suited for a glass garden.

Wildling women were pulling out old roots and sweeping broken glass from the floor. Sansa walked among them without fear. She looked at the cracks in the dome and counted how many repairs would be necessary until anything could be grown here. She felt a strong kinship with this desolate garden, once ripe with prospect, now clinging to its scattered pieces.

There was a sculpted well standing sentry in the center. There were little fish carved into the slabs; a Tully memory and no doubt, her mother’s touch. Sansa leaned forward and looked into the earthly depths of the well’s mouth. She could hear the soft warble of the hot springs below. She remembered stories from her childhood about a dragon living under Winterfell, warming them with his breath. The springs had dwindled considerably since she had left Winterfell.

“Lost in thought, my lady?”

She turned her head and saw a red rose in the middle of faded greens and grays. Lady Melisandre was watching her with a wry smile. Her crimson robes billowed in her wake.  

“I hope I do not disturb.”

Sansa ran a hand across her own skirts, rendered almost shy. She had been doing nothing wrong, yet the Red Woman had a talent for unsettling her and everyone else.

 “No, my lady. I was only watching over the repairs.”

“May I sit with you?”

Sansa could not deny her the request. The Red Woman stopped and peered into the well for a few moments before sitting down next to Sansa.

“What a sad, yet lovely place. This well has gathered many tears. I hope yours will not be shed here.”

The words took Sansa by surprise. “I don’t believe I _have_ time to weep. I’m far too busy.”

The jape did not make the Red Woman smile.

“Your heart is shuttered too tight. I could be of some comfort to you, if you wish to unburden yourself.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows. “Unburden myself?”

“I am a good listener, you will find. Even a good counsel, sometimes.” The large gem resting on her breast glimmered like a winking eye.  

“I thank you for the offer, but I don’t suppose you ever tended to a glass garden.”

This time, Lady Melisandre did smile. “You think you are as barren as this garden before you…but you would be surprised.”

Sansa felt her insides twist with unease. “I think myself quite fortunate, actually. I never thought I would be in Winterfell again. That is enough for me.”

The Red Woman ran her fingers over the carvings of Tully fish. “Nothing is ever enough for creatures like us. You have regained Winterfell, but the well has not dried. There is always more.”

Sansa was reminded of Littlefinger. He had once said much the same thing to her in King’s Landing. Want begets want. It is a never-ending circle. The soul is never sated, never content. _Until we die, that is,_ she thought morbidly.

But what more could she possibly wish for, except that they all survive this winter?

_You wish he would accept you, damaged as you are_ , a treacherous voice whispered in her ear.

Her brother was her last bastion, her last companion, her last blood. And he had turned his face away from her. He had chosen to reject her scars.

Sansa rose stiffly. “I must return to my duties now, my lady.”

She felt the woman’s gaze on her back all the way to the North Gate.

 

 

_How does he manage it?_ Sansa wondered idly, as she ran her hand across the rich fabric.

_A gift from Littlefinger_ , was all the envoy had said. Lord Baelish had been a discreet presence ever since the godswood. He kept to his own quarters, gave Jon his counsel and did not address her more cordially than what was proper. And yet, of course, he had sent her a dress for the feast. In the middle of winter, in the middle of war and chaos, he had found a way to lavish this luxury upon her. He always found a way to be more than familiar.

She let the maid help her into the soft sleeves. It was blue, the color of winter roses. The neck was low-cut, lined with short, silver fur that set off her hair prettily. Her white shoulders were bared as the dress hung snugly on her figure.

Sansa had missed such girlish occupations. Being beautiful had once been such an easy sport. Now this beauty was a clumsy weight she carried around without purpose. It was this beauty which had made Ramsay hurt her beyond compare. It was this beauty which had made Joffrey’s eyes glint with violence.

But she would not think of that now. She would think how pleased her mother would be if she could see her now.

“It looks so fine, m’lady.”

“Thank you.”

She should have disrobed. She did not wish to wear out the dress before the feast, but it felt so lovely against her skin. She was loath to forgo it for her bleak and somber gray skirts.

So she sent the maid away and sat at her little desk to consult the many lists she had drawn up for the feast. But that did not lift her spirits or chase away the sudden bout of nostalgia.

She remembered so clearly the last feast, the King’s feast, before she had left home. King Robert had seemed so vile to her, so heavy and vulgar. She had felt that night, watching him and her father speak and laugh, that Ned should have been king in his stead.

She put down the quill and took up her furs. She needed air. And she knew where she wanted to go.

 

The garden was moist and cool, but not terribly cold. The ground beneath her feet was warm. She sat by the well and put her head down on the stone slabs. She would not weep, she would only stay here for a while and recollect herself. Her hair cascaded down her back and in front of her eyes like a soft curtain, shielding her from the world. She thought she could hear the hot spring. She had got Winterfell back, but her family had died before they could be here with her. They were now just as much a legend as the dragon below the well. 

“My lady.”

The voice sounded strangled.

She pulled back her hair. Jon was standing irresolutely a few feet away. Ghost was sitting on his haunches behind him.

Sansa wiped at her face quickly, even though it was dry.

“Are you all right? I saw you…I thought you were…” Jon trailed off, not knowing how to continue.

“I’m fine. I was just – thinking,” Sansa replied awkwardly. She rose abruptly and her furs fell around her feet.

She heard his sharp intake of breath as his eyes scoured her figure in a way that unsettled her. He seemed unhappy to find her here. It was strange, to say the least.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, taking a step forward. “It’s not safe at night.”

“I’m _perfectly_   safe,” Sansa retorted, keeping her posture straight. “What are _you_ doing in the garden? I’ve never seen you here before.”

Jon faltered. “Lady Melisandre…said she had something to show me.”

“Here?” Sansa asked in disbelief.

Jon rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. “The woman is playing her games again.”

Sansa thought back to their parley in the garden the previous day. What was the Red Woman up to? What schemes was she weaving?

“There is only me here,” Sansa said, casting a glance at the well’s dark mouth.

“I will speak to her,” Jon promised, looking over his shoulder, as if expecting for her to materialize out of thin air. “But you should return to your chambers.”

Sansa took a step forward, leaving her furs behind.

“Won’t you stay with me awhile and talk? We have not spoken in a long –”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t. Another time, my lady,” he rebuffed with unease and shifted back towards Ghost.

Now it was Sansa’s turn to show anger. “ _Jon_. What is the matter with you?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, ducking his head guiltily.

“What I mean is that you can’t even _look_ at me. You haven’t spoken to me in weeks. Have I _so_ disgusted you with my confession? I thought you understood me. I thought you wouldn’t judge. I thought you would be different.” She hated how her face crumbled in pain, but she couldn’t stand his rejection.

Jon’s mouth opened in shock. “Sansa! You could _never_ disgust me. I did understand, I _do_ understand you, I promise.”

“Then why _have_ you been avoiding me? Are you ashamed of me now, the broken sister who can’t bring honor to House Stark?” she demanded, prodding a finger in his chest. He couldn’t run away from her, she wouldn’t let him, not until he explained himself.

Jon grabbed her hand before she could inflict more damage. “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

“Don’t insult me! You have been doing your very best to escape my presence. I want to know why.”

A certain slant of light fell on his face, turning his lips white. He looked sick, almost on the brink of illness. _He works himself too hard. He doesn’t sleep enough. He worries too much._

“Jon, tell me why,” she insisted.

His hands landed on her elbows, trying and failing to extricate her from him.

“I can’t.”

“You _can’t_? But you can tell me anything,” Sansa protested, searching his eyes. They were clouded and restless, like a storm about to break. “Just tell me.”

His hands traveled slowly from her elbows to her bare shoulders. They rested there, precariously. She felt them against her fast pulse. He didn’t seem to know what he was doing, his gaze was locked on the fur lining of her dress.

“I told you about me. It’s only fair you let me in too, you know,” she said gently, not wishing to break the spell between them. His fingers were still thinly ridged with mud from the battle, but there was a hesitant tenderness in them that she associated with him alone. His touch did not feel like an invasion.

“Pretty,” he muttered, thumb brushing the silver fur.

“It’s for the feast,” she said, a little spooked by the intensity of his gaze. “Do you think it’s suitable? I like the color.”

“Blue winter roses,” he said absently.

“Yes…they don’t grow here anymore. Jon, will you tell me what’s wrong?”

His gaze lifted to her face. “I’m sorry I avoided you…I can’t be around you right now, Sansa.”

She parted her lips in surprise. “What did I do?”

He shook his head. “You did nothing. It’s me.”

Sansa leaned closer into his arms. “Is it because of what happened at Castle Black? I know you’ve been miserable ever since you came back – back from the dead. What happened on the other side, it’s changed you.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. “You never knew me that well, Sansa. How do you know I’ve changed?”

She frowned. “Anyone can see it.”

“Only you, perhaps,” he amended, his fingers lingering on her collarbone.

Their faces were too close for comfort. She almost wanted to pull away, but she also wanted to fight the feeling of terror which the past moons had burrowed inside her. He was never going to hurt her like that. He was the only man who would not.

Their breaths almost mingled when they exhaled. His eyes, half-lidded, stared at her lips. If she raised her chin an inch, they could bridge the gap -

They both stepped back at the same time as if burnt.

Sansa still felt his fingers on her throat. She raised her hand to her lips. “What –”

Jon had already turned his back on her. His shoulders were stiff with apprehension, his body rigid and taut. He ran a hand through his hair. She couldn’t see his expression, but she didn’t need to.

“Please go back to your chambers, Sansa.”

He left without another word. Ghost followed in his wake.

Sansa sat down by the well. She crossed her arms around herself and closed her eyes. No, it couldn’t be.

 

 

_Disgust_.

She had thought he was disgusted with her. She had thought he was avoiding her because he couldn’t _stand_ her.

He wanted to laugh. What bitter irony.

He had been walking around the castle for days agonizing over that cursed night, that cursed bed, his cursed body next to hers. He had been distracted during councils, absent during meals.

He had only thought of her in the morning light and how she had curled herself into him and how _good_ it had felt to receive her warmth. He had bathed in ice- _cold_ water for that. He had even lied to himself that she was only a reminder of Ygritte. But if she was only a reminder, there was no need to repent. Yet, he repented so often.

And now, coming upon her in the garden, in all her wretched splendor, surrounded by decay, he almost forgot his repentance. She was a winter rose, as fresh and deadly as ice. But she was also fire, red embers that fell around her shoulders like a second skin. A Stark daughter who had stolen her mother’s hair. She did not look like a Northerner, nor a Southerner, nor anything he’d ever seen. She was beautiful, but it was not her beauty which arrested. It was a quality in her that was hidden, that refused to be named. A spark of life that was timeless, that he felt beating in his own heart.

When she lifted her face from the well, he knew he could not leave, even if he desperately wanted to. It was like leaving himself.

But it was the Red Woman who had done this. She had set a trap for him.

Did she know?

Know _what_? That he was rotten to the core? That he lusted –

No, he did _not_ lust. This was only the puppy love of a sick boy. A bastard, really. 

“What happened on the other side, it’s changed you,” his sister said to him.

She had always been bright. She learned how to read so quickly. She could recite songs when she was only five. He had liked to listen to them. His life had been a strange song, up to his death. Fleeting, transparent almost. Now he was alive again and everything was solid and opaque. His family had had to _die_ for him to gain shape and substance. It was a terrible thought. Terrible, because if it were not just him and her left in the world, Sansa wouldn't have bestowed this affection on him. 

He drank it quickly, did not waste a drop. And when he tasted her breath on his lips, he wanted more. She was so close and she wasn’t pulling away. One taste, just one –

They both recovered their senses in time. But the damage had been done.

He could not bear to see her expression, afraid it would be filled with loathing. He ran away, like a coward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kudos and comments! I hope the chapter was enjoyable.


	5. the crypt

5: the crypt

 

“You’re not to greet Lord Manderly and his retinue. In fact, I want you to make yourself scarce from now on.”

“Scarce, my lord?”

Jon drew himself up to his full height. His mouth was unyielding. His eyes were that of a Northern Lord, laying down the law.

“You’re lucky to be staying in Winterfell at all. If I didn’t have use for you, you’d be long gone.”

Lady Melisandre listened with an absent air as she sat in her window seat. She shivered lightly when a winter gale swept past her skirts. Once upon a time, she used to stand in the middle of a snowstorm and not feel a thing, but now every little gust pinched. She closed the window shut.

“You are displeased with me,” she said, after a short silence.

“I don’t know what ideas _you_ entertain, my lady, but I don’t like to be made a fool of. From now on, you’ll advise me only when asked.”

Her fingers caressed the red gem at her throat. “But you did ask me.”

Jon was remiss for a moment, his brows lifting in confusion. “I didn’t ask ye to lie to me.”

“ _Lie_? I only told you that what you seek is in the glass garden. Was I not right?”

She could see his jaw clicking shut. “No.”

“Your dreams do not lie, Jon Snow. Neither do my flames. I saw your sister –”

“ _No more of this_ ,” he said, loud and furious and unbefitting a Lord. She might not have the strength to stand in the snowstorm anymore, but _he_ certainly did. “You won’t come to the feast, either. You’ll stay here and be _quiet_.”

The Red Woman smiled, as if his anger was all the answer she required.

“As you wish, my lord.”

 

 

She lay next to the dress, as if it were the outline of a ghost. The more she stared at it, the more she forgot why it had such a hold on her. Winter roses, so pure in their bloom, so quick to fade. The color made her heart lurch. It was the color of memory, the color of promise. _We will be family again._

No, that did not seem possible anymore. Sansa held her arms around her body, locking herself in its cage. Jon had touched the dress. His fingers had not left any marks, but she could see them. She could see his imprint in the fur lining, in the rich bodice, in the flowing skirts. She could still feel his thumb in the hollow of her collarbone, where her pulse soared.

She had raised her head. She had measured the short distance between their lips. She had _met_ his intention.

Or was it hers?

Had she been the one to force their close quarters? Had she induced him to come nearer? Had _she_ wanted him to exhale so close to her mouth?

She closed her eyes and squeezed them hard, as if she could compress the dark and turn it back into light.

He was her brother. You could kiss your brother – on the cheek – on the brow – but _never_ on the lips. Not like that. She had grown up with him. He had always been set aside, kept beyond a rigid wall of custom. But she had seen his face turn from childish to lean. And he had seen her advance from little girl to young lady. They had both watched each other turn into different people.

You couldn’t ignore that shared history, that shared blood. Their core was Stark and the Starks did not…

They were not Targaryens. They did not submit to base urges.

Had Ramsay poisoned her with such foul desires?

But how could it be wrong to care for Jon? To want to lift his sorrows and see him smile?

It wasn’t.

It wasn’t wrong, as long as his hands never touched her dress and her head never lifted to meet the mystery of his mouth.

When the maids came to take away her clothes for washing, she instructed them to find her mother’s old grey dress, the only one she still had left from her.

“I’m going to wear it to the feast.”

“Beg pardon, m'lady, but it might need stitching. It’s coming apart at the seams…”

“Mend it where you can, but have it ready soon, please.”

“What about the pretty blue dress, m’lady? It’s so very fine. Much better suited for you.”

Sansa stared at the proof of her deviance. The poisoned winter roses.

“Take it apart.  Use the material for something useful.”

 

 

Lord Manderly’s booming laughter upset all the ravens in the rookery. Even the snow seemed affronted by his buoyant entrance. He disembarked heavily from his opulent double-decked carriage and sank his giant boots in the slush, leaving craters of water and mud in his wake. His knights and squires trampled across the courtyard in an equally possessive fashion. They knew their House had risen as the second most powerful in the North and they were not afraid to show it.

Still, the ancient loyalty they owed House Stark was not remiss. The Manderlys had not forgotten that they had been gifted their Seat in White Harbor by a Stark. The loudest supporter among them was little Wylla, of course. Green-haired Wylla who descended from the women’s carriage with the excitement reserved for better times, for summer times.

Sansa could see a bit of Arya in her, but a bit of herself too.

She and Jon stood a few feet apart as they welcomed their guests. She could feel the tension pouring off his body. She did not know whether he was worried about the Manderlys or something else entirely. Sometimes it felt that what had happened between them was only a strange dream. They had both sleepwalked into each other. And nothing bad _had_ happened, not really.

Maybe they couldn’t be a family anymore, but they could be something to each other, something good and honest. No deviant desires, no whispered secrets.

Wylla Manderly blushed deeply and curtsied very clumsily when she was presented to Jon.

“My granddaughter likes the look of you, my lord,” Lord Manderly teased, pinching her cheek.

“She is lovely,” Jon replied uneasily, taking Wylla’s hand and brushing his lips against it.

Sansa watched the display with a mixture of fear and pleasure. Yes, certainly, Wylla was fond of the Starks, which was good news for them. But she did not like the shrewd glimmer in Wyman’s eyes.

She knew that Jon would need to find a bride someday, a suitable girl from a powerful family that would ensure his hold on the North and who better than the Manderlys?

 _Kill two birds with one stone_ , as Petyr might have said. Secure the Manderlys’ continuous support and strengthen Jon’s position in Winterfell.

And yet, she felt deep misgivings at the idea of their union. 

"Ah, Lady Stark!"

She coaxed a smile as she received Lord Manderly’s loud attentions.

“You are twice as beautiful as your mother, and twice as lucky! Why, to have survived King’s Landing and the Boltons too! Shows admirable strength of character. I bow to your true Stark blood.”

It seemed both genuine praise and a rather strong indictment against her fortuitous escape. Sansa could not entirely blame him. Many lords looked upon her past alliances with suspicious eyes.  

“I am so pleased you have come to see us, my lord. We require your good judgment and strength to lead us safely out of this winter,” Sansa replied softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Wyman took her hand and kissed it with such strength that she almost felt his teeth against her skin.

“Yes, indeed, winter has come for us all. Here is my son, Wylis and his lady wife, Leona.”

Both Sansa and Jon were rather astonished to see a weary couple trudge through the snow to the front of the line. Wylis Manderly looked haggard and gray, and nothing like his former self. His wife clutched his arm so tightly, as if she was afraid she might lose him.

As well she might. Sansa knew Ser Wylis had been the Lannisters’ captive since her time in King’s Landing. Yet here he stood, released.

She schooled her features into solemnity.

“My lord, the Gods have smiled upon you. Ser Wylis is home again and looking very well.”

Wyman scoffed, brushing snow off his furs. “He looks a drowned rat. There is quite a story in that, my lady. But this is neither the time nor place. Shall we have something to sup after such a long journey?”

 

 

Lord Manderly allowed no interruptions during his meals. He did not wish to converse or laugh, not until he was properly finished and his belly was full. Jon had to contend himself with waiting. He watched the fat man eat with the kind of relish men reserved for arms. Yet there was nothing ridiculous in his appetite. Only the very cautious could see it. 

Jon tried to exchange a few words with Ser Wylis, but the knight was utterly broken. He sat with his wife in a corner of the Great Hall and refused wine or food. He only took a little bit of water and chewed on a frosted apple. Lady Leona caressed his brow with concern. The only thing Jon could get out of her was that her husband needed rest and quiet.   

Lord Manderly’s retinue was hardly quiet. They drank and talked boisterously, most of them looking forward to the great feast that would offer some respite from the gloom of winter. Lord Bolton’s removal from Winterfell had been a relief and boon to their standing in the North, yet these were trying times and with Queen Cersei on the throne, no one knew if they should laugh or cry.

He _did_ hear laughter behind him. Little Wylla was talking animatedly to Sansa, telling her a story about her sister, Wynafryd, and her betrothal to Rhaegar Frey. When Sansa asked why Wynafryd had not joined them to Winterfell, Wylla replied that her sister had been feeling “out of sorts” and could not be kept from her duties at home.

Sansa listened patiently and nodded her head, pretending to believe her, but every now and then, she would look up and seek out Jon’s eyes.

He did not know what to do with those glances. He had no strength to refuse them, but he could hardly reciprocate them. He needed his sister’s help treating with the Manderlys, now more than ever, but he was reluctant to approach her more than he had to. He needed time and space to let the night in the glass garden fade from memory.  

Still, whenever Sansa’s eyes returned to Wylla, his own eyes rested on his sister, drawing shameful comfort from her presence there.

“Now, Lady Stark, I believe it is time to visit your crypt and acquaint myself with your Stark kings, for I have never had the honor,” Lord Manderly declared with faux cheer.

Jon felt a shiver run down his spine. He had not been down into the crypt since before he had left for the Night’s Watch.

He was afraid of what he might find there.

 

“It was Jaime Lannister who released my son from Harrenhal.”

Sansa stared blindly at her aunt’s carved statue and listened to Lord Manderly’s sobering account. There was no laughter in his eyes, no mirth in his mouth.

Lyanna Stark stood sentry to their secret talk, like a messenger from another world who was protecting them from curious ears.

There was only her, Jon and Wyman Manderly in the great vaults beneath the ground.

“Did orders come from above?” Jon inquired.

“Oh, no. Nothing of the sort. Cersei Lannister probably does not even remember that her father had my son taken hostage. No, Jaime did this all on his own. Wylis told me the Kingslayer wants _peace_ between the Houses. He’s no fool. He knows he needs the support of White Harbor.  His sister is _burning_ bridges left and right, pardon my expression. Jaime is trying to secure allies, you see. He thinks he is being _generous_ with me.”

Sansa knew exactly what kind of generosity the Lannisters offered. Still, she thought it strange that Jaime would release so useful a hostage.

“Pardon me, my lord, but does this mean Jaime Lannister does not entirely agree with his sister’s…methods?” Sansa inquired, observing Lyanna’s calm features.

“It might, and it might not. I will allow that he could be swayed more easily than Mad Cersei. But that does not count for much now that he’s taken Riverrun.”

Sansa lifted her eyes to Jon's. They both shared the same panic-stricken look. _Brienne_. She had sent Brienne to Riverrun to fetch her uncle.

“Did the Blackfish surrender?” Jon asked thickly.

Wyman laughed bitterly. “You know him better than that.”

Sansa closed her eyes. “No.”

“He died fighting, from what I hear. But it was your other uncle, Edmure, who opened the gates and let the Lannisters in. A milksop and an idiot, to be sure.”

Sansa gritted her teeth to prevent a sob escaping her throat. Riverrun. Her mother’s home. The heart of House Tully. The only one which had not yet been crushed.

Jon moved almost instinctively towards her.  He did not touch her. But he hovered near her, as if to shield her from Lord Manderly’s terrible words.

“There is no time for grief, I’m afraid. And I do have some good news for your ears, if you care to listen.”

Jon clenched his jaw. “Then let us hear it, my lord.”

“Our traitorous friends down at the Twins are not doing so well these days. Rumor has it that the old curr, Lord Walder Frey himself, has finally died.”

Sansa shook her head, her mind still full of her uncle and Brienne. “There have always been such accounts. There were false rumors of Lord Walder’s death when I was a babe.”

“Aye. But back then nobody wanted to break the Freys as much as they do now. And my spies do not err.”

Jon stared at Lord Manderly hard. “Did you have a part to play in it, my lord? If the rumor is to be believed?”

Wyman feigned offense. “ _Really_! As if I could do anything until my Wylis was returned! No, this happened quite recently. A fortnight ago, in fact. The chief thing though, is that the Twins have been weakened.”

“How so? There will come another Frey to replace the old one, since they have so many,” Jon argued.

“But their number is their weakness.” It was Sansa who spoke. “Lord Walder has so many heirs, they are bound to fight among them for his inheritance.”

“My lady speaks well. There will be blood and chaos, mark my words.”

“And what are we to do with this knowledge?” Jon inquired, feeling a dread in the pit of his stomach.

“Nothing, for now,” Wyman replied. “But we once thought nothing could be done about Winterfell, and look how quickly it has returned to Stark hands. Who knows, perhaps Riverrun will come back in the fold just as quickly.”

Jon had guessed this was Lord Manderly’s intention all along.

“You dream of conquest, my lord, when we must make provisions for winter and guard the Wall from enemies.”

“ _Conquest_? This is Lady Sansa’s birthright!” Wyman interjected, his mustache trembling.

“Riverrun is not part of the North. It cannot be saved now, not unless we mean to fight in the battlefield,” Jon interposed.

“You fought that insolent brat, Ramsay, in the battlefield. You have the Vale and my own retinue at your back, Lord Snow.”

“What is it you truly want, Lord Manderly?” Sansa asked, stepping closer to her brother. “You certainly don’t wish to retrieve Riverrun on my behalf. And, as far as I know, your granddaughter, Wynafryd, is still betrothed to a Frey.”

“That she is,” he replied with a shrewd glint in his eye. “And I do intend to see the marriage through. You see, I already have a finger in the Twins. And what I want is the whole hand. Eventually.”

Jon blinked. “You cannot hope to take control of the Twins with only your granddaughter’s alliance.”

“No, but there will be her wedding in the near future. And many things can occur at a wedding.”

Sansa felt her stomach drop. She clutched Jon’s arm. “You cannot mean –”

But Wyman turned his back on them and walked towards the statue of Artos the Implacable.

“These are unholy times, I fear. Septs are being torn down and cast into the fire, gods are being disowned and denied. The North must stand strong against the collapse of the South. Our new queen is a whore and a deceiver, pardon my words, Lady Stark.  The Riverlands _must_ be secured. They must be under our control if we hope to protect ourselves. There was once an alliance between Tully and Stark against the Mad King. Did you know that? Well, now we have a Mad Queen.”

 “You do not speak without truth, Lord Manderly," Jon replied warily, "but your plan isn’t sound. There is more threat lying North of Winterfell than South. I mean to tell you about it, if you put aside these thoughts. Queen Cersei cannot hope to take our seats, not in the middle of winter."

“As long as her brother rules at Riverrun, there will always be a threat, no matter how safe you think you are. But _enough_. We’ve talked the Starks out of their tombs. It is time to rest. On the morrow we feast. I hope you save a dance for my Wylla, Lord Snow.”

 

 

They stood together in the dwindling light of the candles, watching Lord Manderly’s figure recede towards the stairs.

Sansa felt numbed by the shock and the grief.  She had thought there was nothing left to feel sorry for. Nothing left to mourn. But Riverrun.

Jon ran a warm hand down her arm. “Sansa. You’re trembling. Are you all right?”

"Do you think Brienne is still alive?"

Jon paused. "She's a strong fighter. I hope she was also wise and did not pick up a fight with the Lannister army."

"I shouldn't have sent her, I shouldn't have -"

" _Sansa_. If you hadn't sent her, _I_   would have. Lady Brienne has survived worse trials. She will return to you. I believe that."

She smiled briefly. Jon did not trifle with his words. If he said he believed something, he usually did.

“Maybe we shouldn’t hold a feast,” she whispered, staring at her aunt's cold face. “You heard how he spoke of weddings.”

Jon turned her towards him. “We will not let Lord Manderly frighten us. He doesn’t mean us ill. He’s lost a son and much more to the Lannisters and Freys.  He wants revenge.”

“That’s just it,” Sansa said, looking down at his hand still gripping her arm. “He wants _their_   kind of revenge. Treachery and cold-blooded murder.”

And she knew all about that, didn’t she? She knew how it gnawed at your bones, how it blinded your sight. How, in the end, it was meaningless. 

Jon heaved a sigh. “It won’t come to that. Lord Manderly is a big talker, but you need more than talk to achieve what he wants…”

Sansa looked up into his eyes. “I suppose it would be wise to marry his granddaughter, Wylla. You might be able to watch over him. And we would have his support during the long winter.”

The mention of marriage suddenly drew his hand away.

They had both forgotten the lines they had drawn around each other. Jon took a step back.

“I’m not marrying Wylla.”

“But it might help–”

“I won’t be taking a bride any time soon, Sansa,” he interjected firmly. “We have bigger things to worry about.”

“If you are to be made Lord Paramount, you need a powerful spouse at your side.”

“I have you.”

He had spoken the words foolishly. He had meant, “I have you, Sister, to rule the North next to me. The rightful heir of Winterfell”. But what had come out instead was a strange and terrifying admission. And he couldn’t take it back.

Sansa’s breath came out shallow. “Yes, you do.”

“What I meant –”

“I know what you meant," she interrupted quickly. "I will always be at your side, Jon. But you still require a wife.”

Jon glanced at the statue of his aunt Lyanna. “Sometimes I wish…”

“What?”

“I wish I were one of these old statues. I wish I lived down here and never had to worry about what was above ground.” He smiled a sad smile. “Don't listen to me."

Sansa squeezed his arm. “I understand. I feel it too."

He'd _had_   the chance to lie underground and sleep forever. But he had risen to the Red Woman's call. He had taken the life he had been offered.

Jon turned away from her. Why was it they always wound up alone? Removed from the rest of the world?  As if he and she were simple playthings in the hands of cruel gods?

Yes, he did not wish to marry. Even if he were made a Stark.

He did not wish to lead his bride into the godswood.  He did not wish to say his vows. He did not wish to wrap his cloak around her shoulders.

He wanted none of that. He wanted no love, no children. 

He only wanted – he only wanted -

His sister.

That was enough.

He _hated_   that it was enough.

Her eyes shone darkly in the candlelight. She was so much more beautiful than their aunt Lyanna. 

He hated that too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter was a mixture of book and show canon. I hope it makes sense! Next chapter we'll finally get to the feast and see more Jon/Sansa action. Thank you for all your kudos and comments!


	6. the feast (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who would like to listen to a soundtrack of the fic, I've put up a playlist on 8tracks. 
> 
> (http://8tracks.com/retorica/last-vestige-of-innocence)
> 
> Enjoy!

6: the feast (I)

 

For the first time, the light in the room was stronger than the dark.

The candles shone steadily against the winter night. The Great Hall was filled with voices and laughter and movement. The animation was subdued, however; these people had known the hardships of too many wars to indulge in boisterous revels, but the flicker of joy was there, burning bright. The tables were packed, the mead was running over the frothing cups and the steaming dishes were wolfed down the moment they reached their recipients.

Jon surveyed his guests with an aching heart. Everywhere he looked, he saw familiar faces, faces stamped with grief and age, but still stubbornly hopeful. This madness which had taken over the realm could not last much longer, they thought. The old ways would survive. Jon was not so sure. For every Northerner there were three Wildlings at the table, and though the two factions were still wary of one another, they had accepted to break bread tonight.

Jon heard the steward call out the names of the great families gathered tonight. Many families had been halved by war and famine and yet here they stood before him, as if this were the same feast Ned Stark had thrown for the king all those moons ago. Jon had sat away from the family then. He had been miserable all night, despite Robb’s best efforts to include him in the dancing. Now, he sat at the front table like a pretender. He almost missed the obscurity of the low seats. There was a strange power in being unwanted. The real test, Jon realized, was having people count on you and want you to lead.

He took only a few meager bites from the turnips soaked in butter. Lord Manderly had already finished his and was demanding a second helping.

He cast a playful look at Jon. He was thoroughly pleased to sit at the front, where he could take note of Snow and his trusted man, Ser Davos. The Onion Knight was equally taciturn and not very hungry, it seemed. He kept looking at Lord Manderly with a wondering eye, hardly raising his knife to his mouth. Wyman could guess that Snow had told him all about his schemes concerning the Freys. He did not mind. In fact, he relished their discomfort.  

“Is the food not to his lordship’s taste?”

“It is excellent, my lord,” Jon replied gruffly, washing the taste of it down with wine. He was eating from the man’s generous provisions and Wyman wanted him to remember that.

“Mayhaps the blood sausages will please you better.”

“I thank you for your concern over my appetite, my lord.”

“The question is, _have_ you an appetite, Lord Snow?” Wyman winked. “Ah, here comes our gracious host, more lovely than a summer’s day.”

The Hall descended into soft murmurs as Sansa Stark made her way through the tables.

Wyman raised his goblet high. Most of the lords around him followed suit respectfully. Some did not. Some stubbornly looked away, ignoring her entrance. Jon felt his hand clench under the table. He ought to cast them out for their offence. Ought to, but could not.

Sansa bowed her head gratefully, ignoring their slights. She was all sweet smiles and soft steps.

Jon could not stop staring. He had seen many shades of her in the past months; he had seen unspeakable sadness when she had arrived at the Wall, and unspeakable beauty when he had come upon her in the glass garden. But the Sansa he now saw was her mother’s daughter. She was Catelyn Stark.

She was wearing her hair down, two modest braids pinned behind her ears, a Northern collar around her shoulder and a simple grey dress that fell in gentle folds at her feet.

He knew that dress. He had seen it too many times to count.

It was the same dress Catelyn had worn when she had walked across the courtyard to watch her sons fight. He remembered being pinned down by Robb with the wooden sword and watching the hem of that soft garment sink into the slop and mud of the fighting ground. He wanted to reach out and clean it with his fingers. Robb grinned at his mother and she smiled back at him in pride.  Jon got up quickly then and started sparring with an earnestness that he hardly ever showed. In no time, the roles had been reversed and he had Robb on his back, panting and laughing.

“All right, you win this round, Jon.”

He turned his head to catch Catelyn’s gaze, but she did not smile. Her lips were pursed in disapproval. She shook her head and her auburn curls seemed to strike at him. The grey dress swished in her wake as she walked away.

Jon dropped the wooden sword to the ground.

She had worn the grey dress when she had pulled Bran away from Jon, that afternoon when they had climbed up the battlements. Catelyn had afterwards blamed him for planting that wicked desire in Bran. The desire to climb higher and higher.  

She had worn the grey dress when, one night, she came to his bedside as he was ill with fever. She ran her hand hesitantly through his curls. She touched his forehead with a dry but soothing palm. She whispered a soft song in his ear. In the morning, she was gone. And it had felt like a dream, except for the grey dress.

The grey dress which he now beheld with fresh horror.

Why had Sansa chosen to drape herself in this cruel image? Why had she unearthed the past in such a brutal way? They were already standing in its bowels, ready to be swollen up.

He gripped his goblet and raised it in her honor.

She walked towards the front table with a small and anxious smile on her lips. He wished he were one of these insolent lords, indifferent to her being, impervious to the air that shifted and changed when she stepped near him.

The curse of resurrection was this; you got to live again but you never got what you wanted.

 

 

The singers started playing “The Maids that Bloom in Spring”, almost like a taunt to the snow drifts which rose up against Winterfell’s gates. Sansa sat down next to Jon, paying her attentions first to Lord Manderly, sullen Ser Wylis and his demure wife, and fair Wylla. The young girl was wearing a handsome green dress to match her brilliant hair, and she looked longingly in Jon’s direction, hoping to catch his eye or be asked to dance. Sansa smiled in understanding. She turned towards her brother who was watching the few couples that had gathered in the middle of the room. He was amused to see that a Wildling half-lord had managed to convince a Northern daughter to dance with him. 

“It would be agreeable to join them,” Sansa told him quietly. “We don’t want Wylla to be disappointed.”

Jon reached for his wine. “You’ve outdone yourself with the preparations, my lady. You ought to rest. Enjoy the fruit of your labor.”

Sansa picked up her knife and cut into the blood sausage more savagely than she’d intended. “A lady never rests. Not when she’s got a brother as stubborn as you.”

Jon clicked his jaw and held in a smile that he knew would annoy her. “Our father did not dance often.”

Sansa cocked her head to the side. She was trying to meet his eyes, but he was obstinately refusing to oblige her.

“Yes, but he was married,” she argued, slipping a green pepper between her lips.

Jon had nothing to say to that except to sip more wine. He had never taken to the drink so quickly before.

“When I was walking across the Hall and I caught your eye, I thought I saw him, you know. Saw Father,” she confessed, staring at the dancers. The atmosphere was merrier now, the air had grown thick with them. The singers had started singing “The Dornishman’s Wife”.

“You had the same stiff expression,” she continued, “like you had been dragged here against your will.”

Jon swallowed thickly. “Not entirely untrue.”

“But you also looked gentle, like Father. He knew this was his seat and that he had to earn it. He knew how to make himself loved.” 

Jon shook his head. “That skill belongs to you alone, my lady.”

Sansa smiled, rolling her eyes. “One of these days, you’ll have to acknowledge your worth.”

“One of these days, but it is night now,” he quipped, feeling the Arbor Red burning on his tongue.

“True, but that does not mean you’re allowed to be a grump.”

Jon smiled a smile that hurt his jaw. He was reminded of their close vicinity and how much he wanted to turn towards her and inhale her sweet fragrance. But he couldn’t, because that was foolish and _wrong_ and he might never want to turn away again.

She lifted her hand to her goblet and he caught a glance of the sleeve of her dress. _Why are you wearing her grey dress?_

What had happened to the lavish gown, the color of winter roses?  She had worn it so beautifully. What had she done with it?

“Why –” he started, but his words were swallowed up when Lord Glover came forward to ask Lady Sansa for a turn around the room.

She accepted with grace, although she wished she could stay and hear what Jon had to ask of her.

 

 

Jon had never truly gotten drunk. He had never been inebriated enough to lose control of his senses. And even now, no one could have said he was acting odd. He had refused to ask anyone to dance, but that was to be expected of a more reserved host. He simply sat and drank cup after cup of wine while he watched Sansa dance. One might’ve said the look in his eyes was a bit too intense, a bit too bright. His gaze was fixed on her figure as it floated and glided across the room. But that could be explained too; he was her brother, after all, and he had sworn to protect her. Still, there was something unsettling about his unbroken watch.

“Old habits die hard, eh?” Wyman winked, drawing forth his handkerchief to dab at his wobbly chin.

Jon did not look at him. “What d’you mean, my lord?”

“Well, you were once a man of the Night’s Watch. Even managed to rise to Lord Commander. I suppose _watching_ is in your blood, by now.”

“Aye. One could say that,” he agreed stiffly.

“It is truly commendable how guarding you are of your sister,” Lord Manderly continued, undeterred. “Careful, though. Jaime Lannister was also very guarding of his sister.”

Jon felt his blood turn cold in his veins. He felt as if he had been discovered, as if someone had pulled off the very skin from his body and revealed the wicked bastard inside. He did not dare reach for his cup of wine.

Before he could say anything in return, Wyman laughed it off with a pat to his back. “I jest, of course. The North has not been corrupted by such foul sickness. We do not dishonor family.”

 _Dishonor_. The word rang true and clear.

Jon felt well and truly drunk. Or perhaps it was simply his heart trying to get out of his chest.

Jaime Lannister would have probably cut down every man in this room for daring to touch his sister with their unworthy hands.  He hated him and himself for not having that courage, or that madness.

Sansa was not his, could never be his. He understood that she did not belong to him, as no one truly belonged to anyone. Yet he still felt that these lords were taking away his _right_.

How perverse, that Catelyn’s fears had been confirmed.  The bastard _did_ yearn to usurp them, but for all the wrong reasons.

And then, through the throngs of dancing couples, he saw Lord Baelish approaching Sansa with measured steps. He bowed formally, the first indication that he was asking her to dance.

Jon could stand many things. He could stand to watch his sister dance all night with every lord in sight, but Littlefinger was not _every lord_.

He told himself this was not dishonor. It was his duty to intervene.

He rose from his chair, drawing the attention of many curious eyes around him, as he made his way to his sister.

 

 

Sansa had not even bothered to ask him to dance, since she knew well what his answer would be. And in truth, she believed it was better if they did not join hands tonight. She had not forgotten what they had both been tempted to do in the glass garden, and though it had been a momentary folly brought on by loneliness and despair, she did not mean to give it echo.

So she was hardly prepared for his brusque intrusion. He came between her and Lord Baelish with remarkable swiftness.

“Pardon me, my lord, but I would request a turn from my sister, if she’ll have me.”

Sansa blanched, hardly knowing what to say, but Petyr was ever the shrewd mediator. He smiled condescendingly.

“Of course, my lord. She is all yours.”

He retired to his seat and left them standing stupidly in front of each other, as if this was their very first meeting. 

“I suppose we should –” she began.

“Yes,” Jon answered quickly and stepped closer to her, putting one heavy arm around her waist. Sansa raised her own hand to his shoulder.  She could feel the warmth of their bodies, like two simmering embers. Her belly felt like it was under siege.

“Do you still know how to dance?” she teased him with a soft, but nervous smile.

Jon let his fingers dwell on the small of her back before pulling her to him in such a way that made her heart stop. He was only drawing her forward to the cadence of the song. She did not need to question it. She fell in step with him, determined to keep her wits about her.

She could have told him to stop. Could have told him they ought to return to their table before they tempted the gods any further. But she did not.

The singers were now playing a sad, old song which she recognized as “Jenny’s song”.

_Jenny of Oldstone, with flowers in her hair…_

“You said I looked like Father,” Jon interrupted her musings. She glanced up at him and felt the familiar butterflies fluttering madly in her stomach. He truly had grown into a handsome man, handsomer than Ned, handsomer than Jaime Lannister. She might have longed for him when she was younger. But that was before.

There was wine on his breath, sweet Arbor Red. She licked her lips quickly.

 “You look like her too, you know,” he whispered as the folds of her grey dress wrapped around his feet.

Sansa did not need to ask. She knew the ghost that stood between them. Her mother was either turning in her grave, or wishing she had smothered Jon in his sleep.

But as the dance went faster and faster, she lost herself to the feeling of his arms around her waist, gripping her with maddening pressure, making her heart rise to her throat. She should not react like this to him, but she couldn’t control her body. She was already making an effort not to blush. It was hopeless, though. He must have seen how much their proximity affected her. They were entwined and burning, and nobody had any inkling of what went on inside their hearts. Sansa had dreamt of great feasts and parties where a shining hero might step forward and steal her from the crowd. And here he was, against all right and reason. She was damned for thinking of him like this, she was damned for wrapping him in her dreams, she was damned for yearning. But hadn’t she always craved impossible things?

She thought that the cruel world had taught her better, that she had ceased to dream, but it seemed she had saved one last fantasy in her breast, just for him.

The gods might punish her cruelly on the morrow and she would accept their trials gladly because there was no doubt about her guilt. 

For one song, she would live the fantasy, unconcerned with her soul. 

Their fingers met and parted as she circled round him in the perfect steps her septa had taught her ever since she could walk. He pulled her back to him and anchored his arm around her waist before he lifted her in the air. For a brief moment, she could fly. Sansa looked up at the dark ceiling and closed her eyes. She could feel his fingers through the wool of the dress, splayed possessively over her ribcage. She imagined his fingers growing claws, tearing through her skin and bones, reaching her heart.

When her feet met the floor, the song came to an end. She could hear his strangled breath falling on the back of her neck.

The other dancers clapped enthusiastically and demanded “again!”

Jon disentangled himself, reluctant but firm.  He bowed formally, the distance between them re-asserted with painful clarity. Sansa curtsied, but her feet trembled and made her look less than dignified. She glanced left and right, fretful of people’s prying eyes, but she could not tell what they were thinking.

When they returned to the table, Wylla’s eyes were shining.

“You danced so beautifully!”

“Indeed,” Lord Manderly agreed with a thorn in his voice, eyeing them both with scorn. “You make quite the pair.”

“I only warmed him up for you, my lady,” Sansa said, more loudly than she had intended. Some of the guests laughed, but Jon looked like he had been slapped.

“Isn’t that right, Jon?”

Her tone was a supplication. She was begging him to do his duty.

_We do not dishonor family._

“Aye, my lady. I was drawing courage to ask you to dance.” The lie fell from his lips against his will. He offered his hand to Wylla with a grotesque smile on his lips. A murder of a smile.

The young girl leaped with joy.

Jon felt like death was blooming inside him.

He had felt Sansa’s heart beating against his hand as he had held her in the air.

And now, he could not feel his own heart.

But he took Wylla’s arm and led her into a dance.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all your kudos and comments, they are much appreciated! You may have noticed I have taken a few liberties with Catelyn's character, but I'm taking a page from the show here, for the sake of the story. Of course, this is just part I of the feast, more will come soon!


	7. the feast (II)

7: the feast (II)

Sansa returned to her seat with her heart running both hot and cold in her breast. She was afraid that her brother, who had never been good at lies and deceit, might unwittingly insult Wylla with his stony manners. On the other hand, she was afraid he might not insult her at all, that he might, in fact, please the young girl.

_Stupid, treacherous thoughts._

What was important was securing House Manderly’s favor, and the union between Jon and Wylla might achieve the feat effortlessly. She had to think like Littlefinger, for once.

_For **once**? How many times have you thought like him?_

As if the man had beckoned to her, she saw him from across the Hall. It was difficult not to notice him. The irony of Lord Baelish was that, no matter how much he tried to appear innocuous, something in his gait always gave him away. Or perhaps she had learnt to read him well. He was standing against the wall, watching the dancing crowd with great interest. She knew exactly where his eyes were drawn, because her own eyes could hardly resist the temptation.

She tried to stifle the pang of disappointment as she saw Jon lift Wylla to the song’s turns - his hands around her lithe waist - just as he had lifted Sansa minutes before. She could not see his face very well, obscured as it was by his curls, but he moved with energy and grace, and Wylla was laughing.

Had he made a joke? Had he whispered something in her ear?

Sansa could not tell.

She forced herself to smile a placid smile (practiced at length in front of the mirror in King’s Landing) and clap her hands jauntily, as if she was delighted with the match. Soon, she managed to coax the whole table to clap along, even downcast Ser Wylis, although he could only manage a few unsteady shakes of his hand.

Wyman Manderly clapped the most vigorously, his fat palms releasing a booming echo across the Hall. Sansa raised her goblet gamely and smiling in his direction said, loud enough for enough of them to hear,

“To Wylla’s health, my lord. May she grow strong and beautiful.”

Wyman winked, drawing up his own goblet with relish. “Aye. And may she bear a brood of children so large that they will raise a fearsome army for the North!”

Sansa felt the wine go down like bitter dregs. _A brood of children._

She could see them; dark and curly-haired, rosy-cheeked little cherubs, running barefoot through the courtyard, Jon beaming with pride. He’d always wanted a family of his own.

She drank deep, drowning the pang in her chest.

A wildling lord shouted something rather obscene to a wench that made half the Hall laugh, but Sansa saw how Jon shielded young Wylla from the offense and pulled her away from the thick of the crowd.

 _Stop looking. Stop wishing. You had your dream of dashing knights and romance. Now you must return to solid ground._ _He is your **brother**. No matter how much time has passed, he is your blood. And you must never crave that. Ramsay has left a taint on you. You must fight it.  Fight it._

When the dance was over, he kissed Wylla’s hand courteously and led her gently back to the front table. The girl was red from head to toe. Her smile could light up the dark winter sky. She was flushed with pleasure.

And so was Jon, it seemed. His smile was strange, stretched thin, his face lit up by a fever.

Sansa’s practiced compliments froze on her lips. He almost looked _drunk_.

Was he -?

“Do we not deserve your praise too, my lady?”

She blinked, startled. Jon had aimed the question at her, but his voice carried an accusation. She had not noticed that the rest of the table was showering the pair in colorful epithets. Sansa quickly rectified the situation.

“You deserve that and more, my lord. You danced beautifully, Lady Wylla.”

“Not as well as you, Lady Sansa,” Wylla conceded generously, although her gaze was riveted on Jon.

“Nonsense. You would be our Queen of love and beauty tonight,” Sansa teased, ignoring the weighted look on Jon’s face. She could hardly decipher it, and she did not wish to. His eyes seemed to follow her even as he led Wylla back to her seat.

“Are you proposing a tourney, my lady?” Wyman put in good-humoredly.

“Oh, no, I grew weary of them in King’s Landing,” she replied, smiling tightly.  

More might have been said on the subject of tourneys, if not for Jon suddenly turning to the crowd, and raising his voice above the din.

“My lords! I wish to have a say to you all before we resume our festivities.”

Sansa’s eyes widened.

Jon climbed down the short flight of stairs until he was level with the teeming congregation in the Great Hall.

Sansa shared a quick, panicked look with Ser Davos. What was going on? Did he know anything about this?

But The Onion Knight looked just as mystified.

Sansa feared the worst. She had hoped to garner allegiance and fealty with this feast, to bring the wildlings and the Northerners close, to reseat House Stark. This could only be achieved through tact and poise and good grace. Not drunken speeches.  For her brother _was_ drunk, she recognized it now in the tint of his cheeks and lips.

The Hall grew quieter by degrees, turning to stare at Lord Snow. He, who had been taciturn all evening, was going to speak. They were all extremely curious to hear him.

“Some o’ ye in this Hall,” Jon started thickly before Sansa could stop him, “have been my brothers and sisters in the trenches. Some o’ ye have given me support when it wasn’t wise to do so. Some of ye chose not to follow a mad man into battle...and that was wise too.”

Sansa gripped the edge of the table, her bones shining clean through her knuckles.

“All o’ ye have sacrificed kin and more for the North. You protected Winterfell with your life, or tried to. All o’ ye deserve…ye deserve not to be tricked or dishonored.”

_Oh, Gods. What is he doing?_

“I suppose many of ye have wondered, when all’s come to pass, who will take the seat of the North? Who will be Lord Paramount? I tell ye tonight, in front of friends and allies, that it won’t be me.”

_He’s a fool and he’s drunk. Jon, you cannot defend the North if you are not in command…_

“I won’t steal my sister’s right. I won’t reach for something that was ne’er mine. I’m a lowborn bastard and I’ve got my uses. But I won’t steal and I won’t shame the Stark name. So be at ease, my lords and ladies. This feast is given in the name of peace, not conquest. I yearn for nothing but to die doin’ what is right. Perhaps this time I’ll be allowed a clean death and I won’t return,” he ended with a fatalistic flourish, smiling weakly.

It was perfectly mad.

The Hall stayed quiet long after his last words were uttered. Normally, there would be whispers, vociferations and gossip, but now they all seemed too transfixed by his peroration, too shocked by his frank manner. Their minds were all contemplating the same thing. Lord Snow had returned a _strange_ man from the lands beyond. A common shudder seemed to run through them. They wondered, was this the voice of that great mysterious god, the one who has no tree and name, speaking through him?

Sansa was choked with rage. Jon was undoing the efforts and hopes she had entertained for this feast, for this gathering, for this peace. She almost felt like rising and slapping him in the face. Only the presence of watchful eyes stopped her.  She was certain she would break her nails on the blasted table’s edge.

And then –

When the quiet had grown so unbearable that even the serving wenches stood gaping in the wings, a short and stocky figure rose from the sea of blank faces. Lyanna Mormont stood up from her seat, disturbing the funereal scene.

“Here stands a true Northman!” she cried out with passion, surprising everyone with the strong pitch of her voice. There was a ripple among the tables.

“One who is ready to give up title and glory for the good of his people! How many of us can say that?” she demanded, surveying the mass.

The silence gradually changed; the people turned restlessly in their seats, casting queer looks between them, wondering if they should listen to a child.

Lyanna’s small figure turned, determined, towards the front table. She stared directly at Wyman Manderly without a shred of hesitation.

“Lord Manderly. Your son was butchered at the Red Wedding. But when the call was made to fight against the Boltons, you waited.”

Wyman’s wide berth was shaken with an angry tremor. His beady eyes narrowed on the young girl, his mustache quivering, but he said nothing, only swallowed thickly and looked away.

“Lord Glover,” she continued, turning her attention to the stout man with brown-grey hair, sitting at a high table to the left. “You swore allegiance to House Stark. But in their hour of greatest need, you refused the call.”

Lord Glover looked affronted, but he bowed his head in shame, as if he could hardly deny the words. His eyes were watching a ghostly battle field from long ago, the almost forgotten reign of King Robb – the last time when he had felt that the North might rise. His were not the only eyes cast in mist.

“And you, Lady Cerwyn,” she continued, mercilessly, “your father was skinned alive by Ramsay Bolton. Still, you refused the call.”

The lady in question, still a maiden, though past her prime, blinked back a few scattered tears and nodded tersely.

“But House Mormont remembered. The North _remembers_.”

Lyanna turned finally to Jon himself, who stood, almost comically in front of them, staring uncertainly at the brave young girl who was commanding everyone’s attention.

“No, I won’t have you be my Lord Paramount. The North no longer answers to the Crown! We won’t bend the knee to a mad queen! We won’t bend the knee to traitors!”

The crowd was slowly echoing her resolve. No, on that they could all agree, there would be no reconciling with the Lannisters and their _damned_ lot. With the Boltons gone, the North had reclaimed its freedom.

“We know no rule but that of the King in the North whose name is Stark,” Lyanna clamored fervently, her words taking on a chant-like quality. “I don’t care if you’re a bastard. Ned Stark’s blood runs through your veins. The crypts below us are filled with your ancestors, all kings before the Old Gods! You are my king, from this day until your last! The true King in the North!”

Sansa was not sure, at first, what she heard. Was it the blood pounding in her ears? It sounded like a great big wave, crashing over her the Hall. Almost as if a drift of snow had laid everything to waste.

But no. _No_. Miraculously, the people had started chanting.

The very first to do so was blushing Wylla, who stood up in her seat and repeated the claim loudly. The wildings soon joined her, shouting the words in fierce and loyal cries, and then slowly, the entire Hall was swept up by the fists which slammed the tables and the voices which rang Lord Snow’s name.

“King in the North! King in the North! King in the North!”

Sansa parted her lips in astonishment.

Not even in her wildest dreams had she imagined an outcome such as this, and by the looks of Lord Manderly and Ser Davos, neither did they. Even Littlefinger, who was still reclined against the wall, looked mildly impressed with the whole thing.

Jon staggered before them, suddenly bereft of the power to accept or deny the greatness thrust upon him, and he would have surely fallen to his knees, had not he been shored up by one of the men sitting nearby. It turned out to be a wildling.

“King in the North! Aye, the only one’ll accept after Mance!” he bellowed in his ear.

Jon felt he would be sick and the mead and wine he had drunk would flow from him in a river of blood. But somehow, he regained his footing and stood in front of the crowd and received their ovations.

He heard his sister’s voice among the many, calling out _King in the North! King in the North!_

It was half-dream, half-nightmare.

 

 

They later whispered that Lady Sansa had planned it at all, that she had sowed the seeds of monarchy in their breast, that she had spoken to Lyanna Mormont in private before the feast, but those were only idle gossipers. Sansa let them talk, because she had learned from Littlefinger that false rumors could be useful. Her brother’s reckless drunkenness had served well, after all.

Although she did not see it as such in the aftermath of the feast. That night, as silence fell over Winterfell and the revelers eventually subsided, she lay awake in her bed, assailed by thoughts both grim and hopeful.

The celebration had gone on for a long time with much drinking and singing and emboldened cries of battle, but the euphoria of the moment could easily scatter come dawn. Her duties had changed considerably. Tomorrow, she would have to rise early and make sure that the lords had not changed their mind, that the fire of brotherly devotion was fed and stoked.

She had to prepare Winterfell for the coronation of a King.

_Jon…King in the North._

She had barely had a moment to search her feelings on the propitious outcome. Was she happy, truly happy for their victory? _Of course_. This is what she had wanted, for her brother to rule with the support of the North. She had not wanted the glory for herself. She had wanted to be protected from unwanted marriages and alliances.

But there was a bittersweet regret lodged deep in her breast.

If she had never been wed to Ramsay or Tyrion, if she had never met Lord Baelish, if she had never left Winterfell…perhaps now… _she_ would be the one they called Queen.

She remembered Cersei’s words, spoken to her many moons ago, when she had been a child.

 _The only way to keep your people loyal is_ _to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy._

And she had so bravely decided in that instant that, should she ever be queen, she would be _different_ , she would make them love her.

Now that both of these chances were gone, she wondered if they even mattered. Fear and loved ebbed away in time, and people remembered only what they wanted to remember. The legends and stories that Nan had filled her young head with had been populated with heroes that could have been made up, for all she knew. What survived was the need to tell stories.

What story would they tell of this night? How would the songs go? They would make a wondrous tale out of it; he, who had once been a bastard, exiled at Castle Black, had risen through the ranks and united a whole kingdom. At least, this time, the King was worthy.  Sansa smiled. No one would remember the fallen sister at his side. In fact, _he_ might be the only Stark to survive the winds of time. Her brothers were gone, her brave and stubborn sister was lost, as good as dead now for many years, and she too would perish without leaving any heirs.

Sansa felt strangely liberated by this prophetic end. Obscurity had its advantages. She almost felt like a bastard, having taken her brother’s place.

She rose from the bed, knowing well she would not get a wink of sleep.

 

 

The tower was in a state of disrepair, bricks and mortar crumbling at her feet. Sansa had not had the heart to instruct any works to be done in this part of the castle. Her little brother had fallen from that window up above. She could hardly see the gaping hole in the thick layer of darkness, but she stared at it stubbornly, as if she could conjure Bran in her mind, his fair auburn hair, his sprite little body, climbing over the stones, flying down to her, waiting for her to catch him. 

She did not catch him. He fell all the way down, and she saw his ghost lying in the snow.

But another ghost was present as well.

The direwolf leapt from the shadows, stopping mere feet from her, his blood-red eyes watching her intently.

Sansa released a breath. “Ghost. Here.”

The animal ruffled his mane and trotted to her, until his snout reached her open palm. The wolf welcomed her touch.

“You shouldn’t be out in this cold, my lady.”

Sansa had known instinctively that he was there, for wherever Ghost roamed, there was his master too. Inseparable creatures.

She balled her hands into fists.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she called out coolly over her shoulder.

“Neither could I,” he replied, coming closer.

“And whether I am out or not is none of your concern,” she added cuttingly, pushing Ghost away from her.

“I didn’t mean to offend you –”

Sansa turned quickly and marched towards him through the snow, her eyes blazing with fury. Jon was not prepared for the onslaught and he did not shield himself when she slapped him twice, over each cheek.

The blows resounded in the silence.

His ears were ringing.

“You did not wish to _offend_?” she retorted, panting hard. “You almost doomed us all because you couldn’t hold your cups!”

She still kept her voice low, always vigilant of prying ears, but her censure could not be mistaken.

Jon gingerly touched his red cheeks. “I’m quite sober now, my lady.”

“Stop calling me that. I should be the one calling you “Your Grace”.”

“Don’t, please,” he begged.

“Gods, do you _realize_ how close you were to perdition? You gambled with our lives like a fool,” she continued, pressing a gloved finger into his chest.

“I didn’t mean –”

“You could have at least _told_ me of your intentions!”

“I didn’t plan for it, Sansa,” he said, grasping her finger and holding it tight. “It…it all came out in a rush. I only spoke what I felt.”

She laughed a bitter laugh. “Rulers can’t afford to say what they feel. You should know better than that.”

Jon’s mien changed, as if the light of a candle had flickered across his face. His countenance turned dark and stormy, and his hand now gripped her wrist.

“ _I_ should know better? Why did you have me dance with Wylla?”

“Why did I – I was consolidating our alliance!” she snapped, tugging at her hand. She cast a look about her warily, afraid of onlookers. 

Jon sensed her anxiety. He pulled her towards him and dragged them both in a shadowed corner of the tower, beneath the crumbling masonry.

“Consolidating our alliance,” he repeated blankly. “Aye. That was clever. But you did it so quickly, I'd barely released your hand before you pushed me on the Manderly girl. You didn’t even give me a say.”

“Of course I didn’t! Because if it were up to you –if it were up to you –”

Here she faltered, unable to form the words that were stuck in her throat. Because they would reveal too much.

“If it were up to me what? Tell me.”

She was aware of their closeness, of their bodies pressed together against the cold.

“Tell me,” he repeated. “Why did you wear her dress?” He looked at the grey hem which peeked through the thick furs. Catelyn’s dress. Sansa stepped back from him, but found only the icy wall of the tower behind her for support.

“You told me I looked like her,” she spoke quietly, staring into his eyes. “When we danced.”

They both remembered their hands entwined, their breaths mingling. As they did now.

“And you said I looked like Father,” he rasped. It almost sounded like an accusation. As if she had been playing a game of make-belief with him.

She wanted to laugh. She had felt like a peon in someone else’s game for most of her life.

But there was no room for laughter now. She licked her lips. “I meant it.”

He trapped her against the stones until there was nothing but him that she saw. Or was _she_ the one pulling him closer? Was there a thread between them which did not allow for distance?

“I meant my words too,” he said, staring, transfixed, at her lips. “Before they crowned me. I meant what I said to you. I won’t steal your right.”

“Jon, you’ve been made _King_.”

“What of it?” he asked no one in particular. “If they want me to be King, then you must be Queen.”

Sansa parted her lips. “You - It cannot be. It can _never_   be."

“I won’t accept it otherwise.” There was something in his voice, something foreign and resolute. It echoed the timeless winter and the frozen crypts. _Who_ was speaking now? Jon, her old brother, or the new man who had woken from death?

“They will call you mad. You can’t make your sister queen,” she stammered, her heart seizing in her chest.

“You can’t make a bastard king either,” he replied, capturing a lock of hair which had escaped her braid. He let it twist around his fingers, watching it intently.

Sansa brought her face closer to his, as if she could dispel the shadows in his eyes and set him right again.

“We – we _can’t_.”

“Tell me no, then…” he trailed off, his voice filled with cold despair. “Tell me you don’t want to. Tell me I’m sick with sin and you feel nothing. Tell me, so I can save myself. _Please_.”

Sansa opened her mouth to say the words. She was almost sure she _had_ uttered them. She could _swear_ she had walked away from him then, leaving him alone by the tower. 

She could even vouch it had been the end of it. No more was said after that night.

That, at least, was how it should have been. 

But instead she nuzzled her nose against his, relishing the warmth of his skin. His stubble tickled her chin. She was so tired of lonely nights, spent in misery and recrimination. She closed her eyes against the sentence of the gods. “I can't save you. I’m – I’m sick too.”

 

 

They plunged into the abyss at the same time.

One mouth captured the other as Sansa was pushed up against the wall with brute force, but she felt nothing but sweet release. She wrapped her hands around his neck as he pried her lips open and kissed any lingering regret away.   

She had imagined how he would taste many times in her dreams, although she had forced herself to forget, but now it was impossible to ignore the desire that pooled in her stomach. His weight against hers, the smell of wolf and burning embers, his hunger engulfing her until the ground beneath her feet was nothing but smoke. One hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing her pulse, the other gripped her waist, melding their bodies together. He kissed like a wildling, almost, although she could hardly verify the fact, but she sensed it in the way he teased her, breaking the kiss, marveling at the softness of her lips with touches soft as feather, only to plunge deeper and harder, consuming her with the sharpness of ice, stealing a moan from a dormant place inside her. She had never thought she would want this again after Ramsay. Their tongues drank from each other, their teeth bit into their flesh, until the blood they shared, the blood of their father, stained their mouths. Kissing like wolves. She moaned again, unable to suppress what he claimed from her as his lips forged a burning path down her neck. She gripped his dark locks, willing him to feed, and his teeth grazed the hollow of her collarbone, latching onto a sweet spot that made her shiver. When his mouth returned to hers, red and swollen, they were both still famished. She imagined all the men she had yearned for childishly being poured into this embrace; Joffrey and Sandor and Loras and even Petyr, all distilled and destroyed, remade and reborn into her brother. 

Their mouths nipped at the corners, foreheads touching, breaths steaming like dragons.

“Tell me to stop…Sansa, if you don’t tell me…” he issued in vain, eyes closed, inhaling her.

“Don’t stop,” she murmured guiltily and brought her lips to his once more.

He gripped her in his arms, wrapping her up in his cloak until you could distinguish them no more. They were blanketed in the falling snow. They kissed like prisoners condemned to die, afraid they would be cut down before they had their fill of each other.

 

A shadow moved above them on the battlements. It quickly disappeared. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for all your kudos and comments! Expect things to take a turn... (that E rating is going to come into effect soon)


	8. the aftermath

8: the aftermath

 

 

Though the kiss seemed to last forever, their mouths had to break for air eventually. The cold had become unbearable. Her toes were cocooned in frostbite, but she hardly cared.

Still, it was not proper to be seen coming into the castle at the crack of dawn.  She and Jon disentangled, reluctant and slow.

Their faces did not dare smile and indeed, in this moment, there was no room for happiness, or the giddy kind of elation children feel when they are given a plaything. No, this was a serious, _troubled_  kind of joy which stemmed from the knowledge that they were doomed. And that nothing could be done about it.

Jon walked by her side across the courtyard, keeping his distance, so that only the sole of his boot touched the trailing hem of her cloak. Ghost rejoined him with a reproachful look. The direwolf was issuing him a warning with his red eyes, _take care_. There was no room for recklessness now.

Sansa walked with her head bent towards the snowy ground. Her faithful brother accompanied her to her chamber door but neither touched nor looked at her unseemly. It was as if they had only just then met. But she breathed the air he breathed and she could taste the unspoken words on her lips.

_If they want me to be King, then you must be Queen._

At her door, his hand hovered over hers but did not descend upon it. He merely held it above her fingers, like a shadow.  The space between them was infinite and yet the distance was so short. They were both aware of how easy it would be to fall into each other again.

“Good night,” he said then, in a strangled voice.

Sansa nodded her head, her hand trembling under his. “Good night, my King.”

Jon’s eyes widened for a fraction, but it was not truly the word “king” which frightened and incensed him. It was “ _my_ ”.

Her King. And she would be _his_ Queen. He swallowed thickly, and the desire scorched his throat.

She was his sister. Damn him and damn her and damn the world that would be quick to judge them.

He could hear the jeers in his ears. _Look at them, the foul, wanton children, depraved as the Targaryens._ And he almost envied the mad kings and queens, envied the age of dragons and conquest because the Targs had wedded and bedded each other and no one had blinked an eye.

But this was not possible for him and Sansa. 

Their troubled joy was _this,_ their inability to be anyone else. 

He turned around quickly and walked away, wishing he could walk into her chamber. He shut his eyes against the temptation.

Still, he could not keep them closed for long. As he descended the stairs, he opened them and saw the first weak flickers of blue light announcing daylight from the east. He could not take refuge in denial and say it was sacrilege. He had done what he had done. He could not go back now.

 

 

 

Sansa walked as if she were still dancing. She twirled around her room until her head was dizzy and her stomach roiled. She was floating above the floor. She remembered her mother telling her about her ancestors of House Whent and their sigil, the bat. 

“Why a _bat_ of all things?” she had asked, slightly aghast.

“My grandmother told me they thought bats were the babes of dragons,” her mother had supplied with a wry smile.

This was how she felt now; like a bat born out of a dragon.

She swung herself on the bed finally, her heart pounding in her chest.

A deep, resounding laugh roared in her chest. She pressed both hands to her mouth. She feared she might scream with unbridled passion. She, the traitor widow, the barren Stark, had felt tonight life running through her veins anew. She had experienced an awakening at the hand of her brother.

The laughter came again, like a howl between her cheeks and she gritted her teeth.

She wanted to feel shame and dread and all manner of regret, but she had been honest to him – she was sick, and could hardly be cured. After everything that had happened to her, she almost _welcomed_ this sickness.

When sleep came, it took her completely.

She had not slept like this in months.

 

 

 

The following day was like a cold winter sun. Everything was a bright glare, but nothing really touched them.

Sansa awoke late to find that the castle was continuing its revels, now celebrating the new King to be crowned. The Houses of the North had convened in the Great Hall again to welcome Jon when he should descend. Many of the lords and ladies were debating how and where the ceremony should take place; whether in the godswood or in the First Keep, where tradition had crowned other Northern kings. Some argued that since Jon’s origins were not as orthodox as most contenders, he should be crowned beneath the open sky. Others, like Lyanna Mormont, quarreled fiercely and demanded that those who still doubted Jon Snow’s merit should leave the Hall altogether. The atmosphere was tense but jubilant, for though there were discussions and dissents, the North was keen to have a new rule. The excitement was augmented by the wildlings, the lower ranks of which had scaled the parapets and ramparts outside, and were blowing their loud horns to announce the new King in the North.

If Sansa had been her old self, she would have tried to instill some order in the procession, but all she could do now, as she greeted lords and ladies with a frozen smile, was to clasp her fingers and not think of the fact that she had felt her brother’s hand around her throat and his mouth against her collarbone.

_What would they think if they knew?_

The horror of it sent a shiver of guilty delight down her spine.

As for Jon, he walked among them like a blind man, seeing and hearing nothing, too full of what had transpired the night before. In his apparent sullenness, he showed himself more like Ned Stark than he knew, and thus more suited for his new title. Had he marveled at his glory, had he _thanked_   them for this great “honor”, his subjects might have coughed and raise their eyebrows. But Jon seemed more reluctant than triumphant.  He was almost sheepish in the cold light of day. He remained aloof, forbidding and upright, a traveled from beyond the Wall, from beyond the dead.

And they respected this, even if they did not want to.

Oh, if only they knew that the man that they claimed to admire was not at all sullen or humble in his soul but filled with a quiet need, a quiet _burning_. Yes, as the days passed, he might become more aware of the greatness which had been thrust upon him. But for today, the only reality was _her_. His sister, standing in the same room, but apart from him, a presence so violent and yet so sweet.

It was fitting somehow that the desires of his childhood – to be a true Stark, to _belong_ at Winterfell – had been accomplished and yet, they did not seem to matter anymore.

What mattered now… he could not remember. His mind was a fever.

Yes, the Others, he had to protect the North from the coming war. He had to protect _her_.

He remembered the warm caves beneath the ground where he and Ygritte had lain together. If only he could take Sansa there, if only they could be hidden from the world.

He forced himself with great tenacity not to look at her as she walked among the lords and ladies. He pretended perfect ignorance. She did the same.

 

 

 

In the late afternoon, a rider arrived from Moat Cailin. He had been journeying for almost a month, if not more. He had lost track of the time. The snows had been merciless, though not unassailable. He had lost two fingers to frostbite, but he was well and alive. He was being tended by Lord Manderly’s own Maester, whom he had brought from White Harbor.

The rider had a message for Lord Snow. The Maester extracted it from him and informed Wyman in separate counsel. The Lord of White Harbor thought it auspicious news coming on the heels of a coronation.

Jon retired to the solar with Ser Davos, but it was not long before he had one of the serving girls fetch Sansa. It was safe to call her up to his rooms in the presence of the Onion Knight. Their sickness could not rise to the surface in the presence of someone as stolid and unromantic as Ser Davos.

His sister stepped into the solar quickly, business-like, taking a seat by the door, folding her hands in her lap. Her hair lay in loose coils around her shoulders, the russet of autumn leaves. She seemed almost impatient, tapping her foot lightly against the floor.

“What news?”

There was a small crevice in the wall above her head, a knot where the paneling had swollen. His eyes rested on that crevice as if to caress it, but he said instead, “It’s Lady Brienne. She’s alive.”

Sansa’s face blossomed before his eyes. Her mouth trembled with relief.  

“May the Gods be blessed,” she whispered, clutching her fingers in her lap.

Jon nodded. “She managed to escape Riverrun before it was taken by the Lannister Army but they gave her chase. She was injured in the struggle. She found refuge at Greywater Watch.”

Sansa frowned. “That is strange… Lord Manderly told us Jaime Lannister was the one who released Ser Wylis. He seemed reasonable. And Brienne confided in me. She told me they shared…an _understanding_ of sorts. Why would he order an attack?”

Ser Davos coughed. “Far be it from me to question Lady Brienne’s judgement, my lady, but perhaps she misplaced her trust.”

Sansa heaved a sigh. “I still can’t quite believe it, but at least she is safe with the crannogmen.”

“Aye,” Jon confirmed, “there is something strange in this business, but this is not all. She will start on the journey to us soon…and she says she’ll be accompanied by Howland Reed and a small retinue of men.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows. “But Howland Reed, he has not come out of the marshes since –”

“Since Robert’s Rebellion,” Jon finished for her, uneasy.

“What does this mean?” she asked with a sudden lurch in her voice. Ser Davos could not sense it, but Jon knew what it was right away. Absurdly, they were thinking that their forbidden dalliance had set this chain of events in motions.

But it only lasted a moment. Sansa regained her composure. “I mean, does it bode well?”

The Onion Knight shrugged. “I can’t see why not. I believe Lord Reed has finally seen the danger of remaining silent. As far as I know, he never formally joined your brother in the War of the Five Kings, but he stood as shield against the Lannister, didn’t he?”

Jon nodded, his brow creased with distant thoughts. Robb had trusted Howland Reed to help him keep the Neck against his enemies, but a fat lot of good that had accomplished…

“If he means to come here, to Winterfell, he must wish to speak to us,” Sansa surmised haltingly. “And he will soon find out about the coronation.”

“Aye,” Ser Davos considered. “But will he bend the knee?”

Jon seemed stricken by the very notion. He wanted an ally in House Reed, how could he not? But the idea that these high lords might genuflex before him left him with an odd sense of shame.

“If he offered Lady Brienne protection we must trust him. For now,” Jon said at length.

“That is wise, Jon,” Sansa agreed with a slow nod. She tried to meet his eyes, but he obstinately stared at his parchments.

He did not trust himself to look at her plainly as a brother, for he would have betrayed himself. His name on her lips caused a warm spring to pour in his veins. When he looked up, he stared at the crevice above her head instead.

 

 

 

News of Howland Reed’s journey to Winterfell could not be kept a secret for long. Not since Lord Manderly was made privy of it.

Once the servants got wind of it too, it spread through the castle like wildfire. The wildlings had only heard stories about the crannogmen, but they were curious. Gossip ran amok about the “secret swamp” army that might join their forces against their enemies.

Jon would have been more irritated with his Northern guests if he were not consumed by deeper feelings and more treacherous thoughts.

If Howland Reed were to align himself with the Starks it would be good; it would be another obstacle standing in the way of the Others’ advance, but if the man did not believe him? If he, like so many other lords, scoffed at the imminent danger beyond the Wall?

Jon needed proof for all these men. And he knew that they wouldn’t stand with him completely until he showed them a living White Walker. Which was utter folly, but perhaps…perhaps this was what needed to be done.

Would he have the strength, though, to leave Winterfell again? When he had discovered her – when he had _tasted_ her? She had given her mouth to him so softly, so surely, and he had felt gutless, almost _heartless_. Instead of a heart, the space between his ribs had been filled with a wild hunger, a ravenous monster. Gods be good, he had read the terrible histories of kings and warriors who had abandoned their duty and let the floods wash away their kingdoms while they feasted and drank to death. But this was a different feast and a different drink.

Ice would shroud the lands of his birth, and they would find him coiled around his sister, feasting on her body, drinking her kisses.

He had read about the Night King too and his cursed bride...

He dined alone in his rooms, thinking on his own selfishness, groveling in it as the evening fell. He could not swallow a bite. The crown which he did not yet wear weighed heavily on his brow.

He was…he would be _king_. The word was too abstract to wield.

What would Ned say, if he were still alive? Would he be pleased? Jon felt his father would fear the coming storms more than enjoy the momentary respite.

And then he though that Ned might hate him, truly  _hate_ him for shaming his daughter, for daring to seize his precious Sansa.

Jon pushed the heels of his hands in his eyes. Thinking of his father reminded him of his neglected prayers. He meant to rectify that. He needed that quiet of the godswood now more than ever.

 

 

 

Sansa was returning to the Great Keep after a few hours spent in the Library Tower (she had been looking for the old annals on Stark coronations – she wanted to observe every custom to the letter) when she ran into Jon on the lower floor. A few servants rushed out of their way as they carried the evening meals.

Sansa did not know what to do. She curtseyed clumsily, standing at a distance before of him.

Jon pursed his lips, looking away. “There is no need for that, my lady.”

“For the future King,” she insisted, with a small, uncertain smile.

Jon felt an absurd desire to hear her say “my King” again.

But to her, he seemed restless, embarrassed by their inopportune meeting.

“I was going to go pray in the godswood,” he told her after a moment’s silence.

“Oh, but it’s so cold outside,” she said, and she shivered, as if the winter draught had slipped under her dress.

“It should do me good. And it’s nothing compared to the gales further north,” he said lightly, although there was nothing light in his words. Jon had never quite mastered that art. His voice always carried portends.

Sansa twisted her fingers nervously. “I’ve been to the library.” She wanted to share with him what she had read about the Old Kings, but she was suddenly unable to say more. It felt _false_ to keep talking in this casual manner.

“Listen, Jon,” she stammered out quickly, looking around them to make sure there was no one in sight, “I hope you know I am perfectly happy with you. And that I am not upset if you think last night was – a mistake. In fact, I would understand if you wanted it to be forgotten. It was a – a lapse. You can blame me, if you like. I haven’t been myself, I know. And - you have more important things to consider now.”

She had said it all in one breath, afraid she might recant her words if she lingered in the pauses.

Jon returned a blank stare, the kind that soldiers in battle leveled at a dying corpse, too burdened with their own tragedy to care about the violence anymore. His feelings had been pushed back under the skin. She could see the years disappear as he became once more the young bastard of Winterfell, unwanted, unmentioned.

He nodded once, stiffly.

Sansa felt disheartened by his formality. So, it was true then, he _did_ regret their kiss. He was _ashamed_ of it. She had foolishly expected he would contradict her, but she knew that he could not.

 _They_ could not be.

She put on her brave, courtly smile and wished him peaceful prayers, as she walked past him, seeing and unseeing him. 

But she did not make it far.

It was as if she was being pulled by heavy branches down the stream, as if a river god had seized her by the heart.

Jon had pulled her against him, one arm around her waist, his lips at her throat, his whispered words in her hair.

“They won’t be peaceful.”

Sansa’s breath hitched in her throat and remained there, like a small bird mid-flight.

Her back was to him and she could feel his solid chest, the warmth of his body, but it was a warmth which did not and _could_ not sustain them. Like wax melting in the fire.

“Do you really think,” he spoke quick and almost angry into the hollow of her neck, “that I can forget it? That I can put it out of my mind?”

She gasped at the torrent of his words. Her own hand reached out and clasped the one that was gripping her waist.

 “I _do_ blame you,” he continued forcefully, and his voice, his temper echoed deep chambers, underground caves and ice tunnels. “Because I want you like I’ve never wanted _anything_ in my life.”

Sansa leaned back into his touch and sighed, as if released from her burden. He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled. 

 “Do you know what that’s like?” he asked of her burgundy hair and she whispered “ _yes_ ”, although she should have shaken her head.  

“No…not like me,” he gainsaid, pulling her closer until he felt the animal nesting in the empty space of his heart, he felt it claw its way out. He wanted to disrobe her where she stood and bite her and drink her essence. He wanted to have her against the wall and hear her scream, and this frightened him. Because this felt like the work of death. And death wanted her legs around his waist and death wanted her to cry out for him.

Death had whispered to him while he was asleep, _this one you must have..._

He had never desired in such an ugly way before.

 Sansa dipped her head further back, offering him the alabaster of her skin, the swan stroke of her chest. Jon’s lips descended on her feverish skin.

But at that moment they heard movement on the stairs, the voice of servants.

His grip subsided and she turned in his arms.

Sansa was still holding the hand which had gripped her to him. She raised his knuckles to her mouth and kissed them quickly. Jon groaned with unrestrained yearning and cupped her cheek as their foreheads almost touched.

“Pray for me too, Jon,” she murmured against his lips and before he knew it, she had dashed along the corridor, quick as a sparrow, her flaming hair sparking in her wake.

He clenched his empty fists and felt that his father and all the gods might smite him and he wouldn’t care.

  _Pray for me too..._ It felt like a declaration. An admittance.

_This is what we are._

 

 

She kept touching her hair and the line of her neck, running her fingers where his rough beard had reddened her skin.

She felt beautiful in the mirror, but it was not the beauty of court or of womanhood, but a primeval, innocent radiance which rendered her blind. She could hardly recognize her features, there was only light. She still felt his wonderful grip on her waist.

When her maid asked her a question, she could barely listen and much less understand the words.

“…wishes to have an audience with you, if possible.”

Her heart beat loudly in her chest. How did the maid not _hear_ it?

Was it Jon? Had he come after her, to seek her out and finish what they had started? She felt too desperately happy at the thought.

“Tell him yes.”

“Very well, m’lady. Lord Baelish will be expecting you in the Sept.”

_Lord Baelish._

Sansa reeled in her chair.

“Did he say what it was about?”

“He said it was about your brother. That is, about His Grace,” the maid said with an embarrassed blush.

_About your brother._

 Sansa looked in the mirror. Her eyes were dark pools of fear. She gripped the comb and ran it quickly through her hair, as if to brush away any remnant of her brother’s touch.

She forced a placid smile on her lips. “Yes, I shall go to him at once.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for your continued support! i've got lots of heartfelt/steamy stuff planned for the future, so stay tuned! (also, Brienne's story will unfold too, and it will be a bit different from the show/books. there will definitely be some Jaime/Brienne too)


	9. mine

9: mine 

 

“I must congratulate you on your great conquest.”

Sansa took in the words without awareness, her eyes absorbed in the spectacle of light and shadow provided by the candles and the stained glass of the seven-pointed star. Her fear was so thick that she couldn’t even properly listen to him. Instead, she wondered how the Sept had managed to survive Theon’s sacking. Had the Boltons restored it as a perverse gesture of indifference to the Old Gods – or any gods, for that matter? She somehow could not picture Ramsay surveying the repairs; it was too ghastly, it almost made her laugh. She slipped a tremulous smile. Petyr interpreted the gesture as feminine confirmation and his own smile unfolded like a piece of parchment.

“Indeed, not even in my boldest dreams did I imagine such a felicitous outcome. You have secured him beyond doubt, and I must commend you for it.”

Slowly and painfully, she registered what he was saying, but by that point it was too late to intervene, and in any case, it was much safer to let him talk and find out exactly what he knew. He was the one who had summoned her after all, she had no obligation to speak at the moment. But she couldn’t help a small quake in her fingers, as if a sharp blade had run across them. She brought her hands together and wrung them tight under the sleeve of her dress.

Lord Baelish walked leisurely towards the Statue of the Maiden. It had always struck her – but perhaps now more than ever – that of all the Gods, the Maiden’s face was most obscure; even the Stranger, though covered and concealed, was less anonymous. There could only be one of him. But the Maiden was everyone and no one; neither the Mother, nor the Crone, her womanhood was a touch inhuman. Oddly, Petyr _reminded_ her of the Maiden. She felt like smiling again. Rarely does a smile signify joy.

“At first I was unsure if you knew what you were doing. Not that I do not think you capable, sweetling, far from it. But you kept your cards close to your chest. Well done.”

He gently blew on one of the lower candles ensconced in the hands of the Maiden, but the flame withstood his assault. Sansa ran her tongue over her dry lips. She understood now what he was doing. He wasn’t giving away what he knew, not quite. He was forcing her to confess to a scheme she had not concocted. If she denied the charge, he would, of course, consider the matter very differently.

“Thank you, Lord Baelish,” she replied with a throat full of stones. It stung when she swallowed.

“He appears devoted to you,” he continued, stroking his beard, “as anyone would be in his place. Have you let him do more than kiss you? Forgive the indiscretion, but as he has been made King, one can never be too sure.”

Sansa wished, for one moment, that the Statue of the Maiden would collapse on him and bury him in the rubble. How would her previous husband have dealt with him? But she would not relish watching the carnage this time. She knew she could not have him executed, for his influence was not only dangerous, but _useful_. Winterfell still required him and his knights of the Vale. More than that, even as she wished his death, she couldn’t help feeling a sense of loss. Lord Baelish had proven himself to be a cold-blooded, ruthless opportunist, but he yearned for her all the same. It was the only way he knew how to love. He wanted to punish her for not choosing him, but she was also certain that half of his heart was genuinely satisfied, for she, his student, was thriving and if he could take advantage of that, he surely would.

Such complicated feelings wrestled in her breast. The only thing about which she was unequivocal was her furious, ungraspable love for Jon. It was terrifying how much she loved him now, how willing she was to do whatever was necessary to protect him and their unholy union.

“Nothing untoward has passed between us,” she said in her mother’s sententious tone of voice. Then, more gently, “Only kisses.”

Her admission pleased him greatly. She was playing along, pretending it was only a scheme. They both knew she was dissembling, but that did not seem to make a dent in his plans.

“Well, then. He can survive on that awhile longer, can he not?” He stared at her lips shamelessly. “I hear he has a weakness for fire-kissed hair.”

Sansa walked towards the Crone and placed a candle at her feet. “I would not know, my lord.”

“Either way, your Northmen will hardly have cause to protest. He is base born, his mother might as well be a spearwife, given his affection for their kind. You may share a father, but it is the mother that counts in such things.” His eyes held a certain devious spark, which rattled her composure. What did he mean by this talk of mothers? Why would he suggest that her father had bedded a wildling? Eddard Stark could not have had such relations. He had traveled South, in any case, for Robert’s Rebellion. Or was Petyr testing her?

“No, I daresay after some convincing arguments, they will be persuaded that he cannot rule without his true-born Stark Queen. Of course…it is a matter of _delicacy_. One wrong word and the Houses might take offense. Proceeding without caution would lead to scandal and outrage.”

This was a threat as clear as morning. No one could misread his meaning now. Sansa turned to him with a blank stare. It was the kind of unvarnished look she had mastered in King’s Landing. Many unobservant watchers would have thought her slow-witted, but those who knew how to _see_ could tell what was brewing underneath. She trusted that Petyr would.

“I would be grateful for your support, Lord Baelish.”

His face broke into a smile like water, slippery and cold. His eyes danced with hunger. He tipped her chin up with his fingers. “You already have it, sweetling. Make sure you remember that.”

_Make sure._

She nodded, moving away from his touch.

 

 

The preparations for the Coronation being under way, Jon found precious little time to spend in his sister’s company, for she was always needed by some servant or some Lady of an ancient House. The women, even the spearwives, were terribly animated by the festivities. It rang to them as a clean break with the rest of the kingdom, an installment of their own proud Seat at Winterfell. He’d found it was always young lasses like Lyanna Mormont that best enjoyed a game of politics and country ruling. The men only pretended to like it. The women were in their element. Even the hard winter was momentarily put aside, though Jon could hardly forget.

He felt like he was walking on the flimsy material of dreams and he was bound to wake up in some desolate camp, North of the Wall and lose the goodwill he had accrued so far. Most painful would be to open his eyes upon a world where his sister had never told him how she felt about him. He lay in bed in the morning, the sheets turning cold against him, savoring the undisturbed silence of the Keep, the creaking of the bed, the melting of ice against the window pane. He would contemplate her words, pour over them like a hungry maester, until language alone became an inconvenience, and the only way to remedy that was with the plum-softness of her lips and the dependable, intoxicating quality of her skin. He let his hand wander towards the colder half of the bed. If she were here with him, he would honor her flesh with the prayer that she’d asked of him.

_Pray for me too, Jon._

And he had. He had prayed for them both in the godswood, but the weirdwood bear no false testimony, and what he really spoke to them was words of unlawful love, of sin made virtue. He prayed there could be a way for them to be together, knowing that he could not forsake his blood, knowing that his father was watching.

_I am weak and base, but if I must be King, do not deny me this…_

His father would not be pleased anyway. No, he couldn’t be. Jon stared at the ceiling. This had been Robb’s room once.

He could not find it in him to mourn for long. Like a boy wet behind the ears, his thoughts would turn fanciful. He imagined sleeping and waking in the same bed as his sister without shame.

They had both slumbered like children in the Lord’s chamber, it seemed so long ago. He stared down at himself, the bruised and battered but still able body, filled out now with regular meals.

He knew he could not cheat the gods. His cock was hard under the sheets, aching with the thought of her. Jon swallowed thickly and took himself in hand. Was she alone in her bed too, thinking of him? He shuddered at the sensation that rippled through him, like a stone on the quiet of a lake. He stroked his shaft slowly, almost tenderly, although there was a bright anger in his movement. She had stood before him in that corridor and she had wondered if he _regretted_ the taste of her lips, if he perhaps wanted to reject her gift. How could she ever think that he could wrench the chalice from his mouth now that he had drunk?

He rubbed his thumb over the tip of his cock which was leaking seed already, making him exhale in short gasps. Gods, the way she had felt as he'd nestled his nose in the hollow of her throat. His hips jerked forward without control.

She had always been _right_ under his skin, even as a child. He had hardly noticed how much the shape of her being, the sound her voice had stayed with him across the years. She had been the Stark he had always avoided, more so than her mother. He had poured his love in Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon and tried to think of Sansa as a separate creature, a creature without winter.  Like a traveling bird, she would fly away to some exotic kingdom, to marry a stately prince.

And yet, he had only discovered winter – the true, bone-deep frost– in her kiss.

For he had never admitted to himself, much less to the Red Woman, that her visions for him had not been of the future, but of the past.

 _I saw you in my flames…kissing a queen with red in her hair…._ _s_ he had told him with absolute conviction. But the truth was, this had been the world beyond death.

For a long time, he had tried to hide this truth from himself. He had buried it in a subterranean recess and let it lie. But as he stroked himself to completion in his brother’s bed, it was no longer possible to conceal.

He had seen her in the land beyond death. 

 

Out of the immaterial where he was cast, there came a cold light from the east. The dark stupor became an ice-blue clarity. He felt ageless, his body consuming the world. There was nothing around him but himself. He was, in the cruelest sense, snow. And in this state of above-nothingness, he languished on a throne of ice. Before him, vast wastelands crawled with skeletons and ice-chipped demons. He was a part of them, but he was also their indifferent ruler. And as he watched these fields of despair unleash their mean cadavers, he felt a great, euphoric joy, as if this had been his purpose all along. He had razed the land and rendered it primordial once more. He had defied the gods who gave land meaning. He contemplated his blue hands, whose veins had frozen from the inside. He clenched his fist and he felt power there, the power of the immaterial.

But then his heart grew weak, he grew afraid. For where was _Jon_? Where was himself?

“Jon.”

There she was. A maiden, naked as the day. Her body was wrapped, like seaweed, in locks of fiery red. She lay before him, beckoning him with her smooth, alabaster skin. Her eyes were as deep as the bottom of wells.

“Don’t you love me, Jon?” she asked in sorrow, lips the color of apple flowers.

He could not answer her question, for he was dead, yet he was also everything that had ever been. He was the snow, the snow, the _snow_. And like the snow, he fell upon her and covered her and gripped her to him until he had her red mane wound around his knuckles.

“They made me suffer, my love. They inflicted great wounds,” she spoke into his ear, pointing at the soft bruises on her thigh, and he felt the immaterial grow in him. The rage of dusk, the hour of twilight.

“They shall have no peace, living or dead,” he thundered in a language he did not speak, and kissed her lips with almost cannibal hunger. He bit into her breasts and he tore like a wolf at the bundle of veins at her throat, making her whimper and scream for more. 

 _I'll kill them all for you._ Eternal damnation awaited those who had injured her. _You are mine. You are mine. Mine._ It is what the snow sang as he floated on nothingness, as he waited to be resurrected.  

When he had returned to the land of the living, he had foregone this aberrant dream. It must have been a hollow memory, a mere confusion. He had not _really_ seen any of that. It was only Melisandre’s histrionic visions. And he had not witnessed a desolate world; he had not kissed a queen with red in her hair. It was a fairy tale only Nan would tell, were she still alive.

But could he tell the difference anymore? Who was he to deny the truth of his death? How could he begin to understand?

Melisandre had often wondered how she had managed to bring him back, hinting to Jon that her powers had never taken her so far. But he knew how, though he did not tell her. He knew what truly forced him back into his old flesh.

_You are mine. You are mine. Mine._

_Pray for me too, Jon._

 

He came hard with Ghost’s howl on his lips, the seed spilling in his fists and on his belly.

It had been his sister who had resurrected him, and he had not understood why until he had seen her again. When she had walked through the gates at Castle Black, he had felt deceptive peace and relief and happiness that his kin was alive. He had seen her arrival as a good omen, as a wondrous miracle, nothing short of an exemplary reunion. But as the days passed and they talked and reminisced and grew to know each other better after all these years, he came to the strange realization that he _already_ knew her, in some way.

He had dismissed the thought then.

But it's true, that you always know the one you love, even before you start loving them.

He lay there with the seed cooling on his stomach, feeling afraid and weak all of a sudden.

Where was he? Where was _Jon_? Who was this man? Was he that king who surveyed his kingdom of ice and cared not a whit? He had already been made ruler. And winter had come.

Would he – would she –

_Would I kill for her until the land was made a waste and corpses walked upon it?_

The question was issued by a strange voice in a language he did not know.

 _Haven’t you already done that?_ it prodded silkily in his ear.

Jon rose hastily to clean himself.

 

 

In the caves below, the roots looked like pulsing veins, carrying black blood to the center.

Bran watched as Bloodraven absorbed and delivered the blood back to the weirwood, a calm and unremitting cycle. He grasped one gnarled and twisted root with both his hands and held onto it as his eyes turned milky white and the ground disappeared beneath his feet. He had gotten used to flying. He flew over the miles and miles of snow-packed earth to land in the familiar environs of Winterfell’s godswood. It had been difficult to inhabit the tree at first. He had expected it to be as easy as warging into Summer, but the physicality was much more strenuous. For Summer was still closer to him in composition than a thing which grew straight from the soil. So he struggled and bled and gnashed his teeth until he felt the weeping face pinch his cheeks and turn his skin into wood.

He stared now with a degree of zealous satisfaction at the red leaves and the walls of the castle in the distance. He had been lucky enough to catch both Sansa and Jon at prayer in the evening, but he had not been able to communicate with them, not more beyond a whisper in the wind. Bloodraven forbade it, and his reasoning was sound.

But today, Bran could hardly keep quiet. His heart was beating out of his chest, pouring out of the weeping face of the weirwood.

Jon was kneeling before him, telling him of his love, of his desire, of his unrepentant sin.

_“I love her. And if I’m to be made King by your will, don’t deny me this. Don’t take her away from me. Let me live with her without shame and I’ll do your bidding._

Bran gasped as he let go of the root. Bloodraven was chiding him. “You stayed too long.”

He was shaken by a shudder that almost set his limbs in motion. “I can’t stay here anymore. My brother –”

“Loves his sister,” Bloodraven intoned hoarsely, and his voice was laced with dark humor. “But is it so?”

“How do you mean?”

“Stay. Let me show you. We shall need them for the coming war, Bran.”

“Tell me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so how about that trailer? i am honestly in two minds about it. i know that *jonerys* is probably what we're going to get, but the framing felt vividly jonsa (as if, in the end, he would return to her). what really freaked me out was that i had already written the first portion of this chapter when the trailer came out and i felt that it somehow conveyed a similar atmosphere haha.  
> anyway, you may have noticed i am playing with the canon of Jon's resurrection big time. hope you enjoyed!


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